


Shell Game

by forthegreatergood



Series: Punctuated Equilibrium [1]
Category: DCU
Genre: Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Identity Porn, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Graphic Violence, Open Relationships, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Sex Pollen, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-02-16
Packaged: 2017-11-26 03:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forthegreatergood/pseuds/forthegreatergood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman wants Superman.  Superman wants Batman.  Eventually they'll get it sorted out.</p>
<hr/><p>“What do your girlfriends all see in him, anyway?” Clark asked wearily.</p>
<p>Lois's eyebrows shot up. “You’re joking.  Oh my god, you’re not joking.  Clark, Bruce Wayne is eligible, young, and rich.  And even if he weren’t, I don’t know if you happened to notice this around the trauma of having to listen to him make it with a gossip columnist, but he’s practically <i>sex in a suit</i>.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I get that.  But he’s just so, so...” He made a face. “Vacant.  There’s no <i>there</i> there.  That would have to get old pretty quickly.”</p>
<p>She reached over and prodded him a little, her fingertips light against his ribs. “I get that he’s no Batman, but c’mon.  Not everybody’s going to have access to a space station full of superheroes in skin-tight outfits to pick from.  Some of us mere mortals are stuck having to settle for impossibly handsome, wealthy, sexually cooperative dullards.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters property of DC Comics and their respective affiliates.
> 
> Not beta-read. Please post any noticed errors in the comments, and they'll get fixed.

Bruce sat up straight, legs folded into a half-lotus, shoulders back, arms loose, hands resting on his knees, eyes closed. He breathed deeply, deliberately. _Empty the mind_ , he told himself, _and clear away all thought. Empty the mind, and clear away all thought_. He relaxed his shoulders slowly and felt some of the tension drain from his neck and back. _Breathe in, breathe out_.

Eventually, his mind followed his body into a calmer state. He’d been off-balance for the past six weeks. Every attempt to compensate for it had failed or backfired. He felt as if he was playing a game whose rules he only half-understood. Worse, he was losing the game to someone who didn’t even know they were playing. He’d almost forgotten how much he hated the sense of floundering blindly through a scenario. He prepared for a reason. But he didn’t remember it affecting him this badly before. He was supposed to be better than this. Batman _needed_ to be better than this.

_Breathe in, breathe out._ He needed to be able to assess the situation impartially, rationally. _Empty the mind._ He needed to be able to trust his own judgment. _Breathe in, breathe out._ He needed to be able to consider all the angles. _Clear away all thought._ He needed to not be in a complete disarray. _Breathe in, breathe out._

After a few minutes, he was on firmer ground. He could do this. All riddles had answers. All problems had solutions. They might not be especially pleasant solutions, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there. _Breathe in, breathe out._ The measures he’d taken so far had been insufficient. He needed to re-examine the issue, start again from the bones of it. Reduce it to its most basic form. _Breathe in, breathe out._

He was intensely attracted to Superman. It was a distraction he couldn’t afford. _Breathe in, breathe out._ His distraction was a disadvantage the League couldn’t afford. A disadvantaged League was something the world couldn’t afford. _Breathe in, breathe out._

Bruce swallowed and shifted position incrementally. It was hardly the first time he’d been attracted to someone with whom he had no chance, or to someone with whom a tryst would be wildly inadvisable. Superman--straight, monogamous, in a committed relationship, fellow League-member Clark--was perhaps the most ridiculously unattainable, inadvisable one yet, but no, not by any stretch of the imagination was he the first. _Breathe in, breathe out._ The best prescription had always been distance. Out of sight, out of mind. Minimize contact and wait for it to pass. It was a tactic that had failed rather spectacularly this time around. _Breathe in, breathe out._

It had been six weeks since a missile gone stray during a fight had made it painfully obvious that he needed to rein in his emotions. He’d been in no real danger. He’d have made it out of the blast radius in time. He had no doubt whatsoever about that. But then Superman had been there, blocking his path and shielding him from the explosion, and it had suddenly been a moot point. _Breathe in, breathe out._ If the force of it hadn’t broken the concrete that Clark had braced himself against, closing the last few inches between them and flattening them together in a strange parody of a lover’s embrace, he might have continued deluding himself until it was too late to extricate himself from the situation. In a way, it had been fortunate. In another way, it had been disastrous.

Six weeks since the battle had ground to a halt for a handful of seconds, suspended by the warm breath on his neck, the impossibly perfect body on top of his, holding him down, and the searching, tender concern in blue eyes scarcely two inches from his own. _Breathe in, breathe out._ If there had ever been a day he’d regretted putting the white lenses in the mask to conceal his eyes, that day had not been it. He’d barely managed a convincing growl and a quick shove to dislodge the alien. The exasperated “You’re welcome!” called at his back as he retreated, saved by the fight they were still in the middle of, had been welcome confirmation that Superman, for all his heightened senses, had either not noticed or had misinterpreted the effect he’d had on him.

Six weeks of carefully orchestrating teams and missions and investigations that kept Clark out of his sight as much as possible without quitting the League all together. It shouldn’t have been difficult. He was, after all, the only member without superpowers. He and Wally were the only two with cities to take care of, and Central City needed a lot less taking care of than Gotham. Superman being Superman meant that he usually needed someone with quick wits more than he needed a brute-force back-up; Batman was _better_ , but Batman was not _necessary_. Even Shayera, with her methodical approach balancing her hot-headedness, and Wally, with his capacity for sheer physical speed doing something to compensate for his impulsiveness, were situationally-appropriate partners for the man of steel.

Six weeks of unexpected resistance from the rest of the League, primarily from Clark himself. _Breathe in, breathe out._ He’d suspect Clark was toying with him, if he weren’t dead certain that the man was incapable of it. And, of course, he’d have made a point of hiding his disappointment more effectively if he’d had ulterior motives. _Breathe in, breathe out._ The motives for the rest of the team’s subtle mutiny, he was less sure of. It wasn’t that they were arguing about assignments. That, he could have handled. That, he could have rebutted. But no, the logistical and tactical advantages he was relying on to keep anyone from openly questioning him did the trick. They were just...off.

Six weeks of his teammates being inexplicably less efficient and more irritable, in spite of his meticulous planning. They all liked, respected, and worked well with Superman, and Clark certainly wasn’t grumbling about the extra work. He’d taken care to match everyone with their preferred partner when feasible. _Breathe in, breathe out._ Nothing should have changed. But if it wasn’t Diana--who never complained when it was Bruce--griping about pulling surveillance duty with Clark, it was Shayera--whose self-possession was perfect in other situations--’accidentally’ knocking his files off the table with a wing on her way out with John. If it wasn’t John asking--for the fifth time, with a bite to his tone--if he was _sure_ he didn’t need to borrow the Flash, since Gotham seemed to be keeping him awfully busy lately, it was J’onn asking if he wanted to “talk about it” in that odd way he had when he already knew the answer was no, and what he wanted to communicate was less the offer and more the fact that he wasn’t going to _stop_ offering until Batman either took him up on it or ceased to need it. And if it wasn’t any of that, it was Clark simply showing up.

Six weeks of watching Superman periodically wander Gotham, his reporter’s notebook out and his artless-yokel persona firmly in place, and being unable to tell him to get the hell out without tipping his hand. It was aggravating in the extreme. _Breathe in, breathe out._ He forced himself to relax again. 

Even if he hadn’t been able to figure out Superman’s civilian identity before, seeing Clark Kent roving Gotham’s worst districts with impunity would have been more than enough to put two and two together. How Luthor hadn’t managed it in all the years he’d been fighting the Kryptonian, Bruce would never know. For all the good having the information did him, he thought bitterly. _Breathe in, breathe out._ Unless he wanted to draw extra attention to Clark and put an even bigger target on his back than his tenuous association with Superman already had, the Bat could hardly be seen swooping down and personally ordering him out of the city, could he? Batman didn’t talk to reporters. Batman didn’t pose for photographers. Batman, as far as sensible people were concerned, probably did not exist. 

If a reputable reporter somehow got an interview with Batman, it would be suspicious for him to then publish nothing about it. And being _Bruce_ was even more useless in this situation. _Breathe in, breathe out._ There was no plausible reason for Gotham’s richest bachelor to give an out-of-town newshound the time of day without an appointment and at least a half-million dollars changing hands somewhere. And so the exact person he was trying to avoid was now intruding in the one space he’d previously respected.

Bruce gave up trying to meditate and got to his feet. He still had an hour before he had to start getting ready for...he thought for a moment. A benefit dinner. Cancer charity. Patients’ living-expenses fund. A very good cause. He’d need to be ‘on,’ as it were, oozing charm and availability and just the right amount of entitled gentility. Wayne Enterprises would, of course, be writing a very large check, but the point of the dinner was to persuade other people to follow his lead. He stretched his shoulders. A very different sort of costume, a different sort of mask, and a much more delicate fight. With any luck, it was at least one fight he could manage to have without Clark hovering nearby. 

* * *

Bruce suppressed a sigh and papered over it with a bright, toothy smile as another dowager patted his hand, assured him that she intended to give very generously, and hoped sincerely that he’d find a nice girl to settle down with soon. That Lois Lane had been assigned to cover a drowsy high-society fund-raiser surprised him. That condition having been satisfied, however, he was not surprised in the slightest to see her guileless hayseed of a shadow bumbling along in her wake. He was no longer completely mystified as to how Clark kept getting people to tell him things; he could win every journalism award in the solar system and still fail to be taken seriously by his targets. His ignorant-bumpkin persona was almost as bulletproof as his skin.

There had been a brief half-second when he had wondered if Clark had deduced his own identity in the same way he’d deduced Clark’s, but that bright blue gaze had swept over him without pause to take in the room as a whole. Aside from Clark’s own colleagues and two guests Bruce knew to be involved in organized crime, no one in the crowd seemed to hold any special interest for the reporter. He still had that much of an edge, at least. Bruce moved on to the next knot of donors waiting to be finessed. Given how intensely aware he was of Superman’s presence, of the way he drifted through the assembly in absolute concealment, an unseen god walking among mortals, he would take any edge he could get.

Or, he thought, any new distraction. Vicki Vale caught his eye from across the room and arched an eyebrow suggestively, shifting her posture in subtle invitation, her green sheath dress clinging to her curves like a second skin. Bruce conjured a warm, lazy smile just for her and made his way over without undue hurry.

“You look _bored_ , Brucie,” Vicki breathed, the edges of her lips curling up.

“Are you suggesting that you can propose something more entertaining?” he asked, his voice light and smooth and just the right touch of interested. Vicki, lovely Vicki, with her spun-copper hair and her glittering blue eyes, was the very picture of distracting. Particularly given her penchant for treating handsome, vapid men like kleenex and her preference for a sure thing over an easy thing.

“Are you suggesting that you’d join me in it if I could?” she challenged, her smile becoming more defined.

“How could I refuse such a delightfully mysterious invitation?” His laugh was low and throaty. 

Vicki, he remembered, liked a hint of a chase. Liked feeling, just a little, as if she’d won when she got a man into bed. He leaned away from her slightly, and she leaned in close enough that the smell of the perfume she was wearing--almond and vanilla, with something darker running along under those notes--filled his nose. She traced the neckline of her gown delicately, the ruby lacquer on her nails drawing him in and the motion of her hand guiding his sight to the lush swell of her breasts under the silk. He swallowed thickly, letting his gaze linger just a second longer than subtlety dictated, then glanced up to meet her eyes. He made a show of blushing and looking away and cleared his throat nervously. She leaned in all the way against him, her lips practically brushing his ear.

“How could you, indeed?” she asked.

She turned gracefully and walked away, her hips swaying with a perfect rhythm and her shoulders set, utterly confident that he would follow her. Bruce smiled to himself and did, his gestures precisely calculated. It would be obvious to anyone who had been paying attention that they were slipping out for an assignation, but it wouldn’t do to alert everyone who hadn’t been paying attention into the bargain. He glided out of the ballroom a few paces behind her and fell into step as she led him through a back corridor and up a flight of stairs. His pulse quickened, Clark’s persistently irritating proximity forgotten at the sight of her ass and thighs flexing and shifting under the jade veil of her dress.

Vicki stopped at an unmarked door and smiled wolfishly at him before opening it.

“A coatroom?” he asked in mock-surprise. He had a mansion, and she wanted him in an unused coatroom. He could feel his cock stiffening.

“Live a little, Brucie,” she said, her voice husky. “You appreciate the wine and roses more when that’s not all there is to it.”

She wrapped his tie around her fingers and tugged him after her as she sauntered inside. He shut the door after them, barely having time to lock it before the hand on his tie grew more insistent, almost imperious. She leaned against the wall and pulled him close, the fingers of her free hand catching in his hair and guiding his lips to her throat. He took the invitation, crowding against her, his hands caressing her body from waist to hips and settling there as his tongue explored her neck. She slipped her knee between his legs and rested her thigh against him, pressing and rubbing as his cock hardened further. 

Bruce set his teeth against her skin where shoulder met neck and tasted her, his tongue making small darting motions against her flesh. She tilted her head away, giving him more room, and then moaned quietly as his hands drifted lower, easing her dress up until the smooth pads of his fingers found bare skin above her stockings. Vicki breathed out in a rush and pushed him away, gentle but firm. He shot her a quick, questioning glance, then chuckled as he took in the smirk on her flushed face and the shift in her grip, her hands moving to his shoulders and urging him down onto his knees.

“Ms. Vale, I do believe you are trying to seduce me,” he said softly, stripping off his jacket and tie. He tossed them away, onto the floor. She smiled more broadly and licked her lips.

“I’d say I’m doing more than trying,” she purred, watching him kneel. She spread her legs around his broad shoulders, crooking one knee over his back and drawing him even closer to her. He moved his free shoulder until her other thigh was resting on him as well, and she hissed in anticipation, her muscles taut against his frame. 

Bruce reached around her legs and inched her dress up to her hips, his fingers lingering for a moment on her garter belt. She leaned harder against the wall and dropped one hand to the back of his head, scarlet nails digging into his scalp as she nudged him forward impatiently. He hesitated for a long moment, then obeyed when her fingers tightened in his hair. He left a trail of kisses from the crest of her hip to the dense nest of red-gold curls. She shivered as his breath whispered over her skin.

“ _Oh, Bruce_ ,” she choked as his tongue finally stroked along the length of her, burrowing between her folds and flicking flat and strong over her clit. Her back stiffened against the wall and her thighs over his shoulders as he repeated the movement. His strong hands kneaded and cradled her ass as the tip of his tongue curled around her clit again, teasing the hood before moving back down toward her dripping cunt.

Bruce worked his mouth against her skin, lost in her surging wet heat, all thought of anything but her temporarily blotted from his mind. This-- _this_ \--had been all he needed. He’d been a fool to think otherwise, a fool not to remember all that he could have for the one thing he couldn’t. Vicki was soft and drenched and fierce against his tongue, her hips hitching against him and her fingers spasming in his hair. Caught in the moment, he needed her like he needed air.

“God, Bruce,” she breathed again, her voice thick with lust instead of shock this time. His cock jumped at the sound of her voice, painfully hard against the seam of his trousers through his boxers.

“I’m going to fuck you right here on the floor,” she panted, her hands moving to his and pressing against them, curling his fingers more tightly into her flesh. “Right here on the floor, and there’s not a goddamn thing you can do about it.”

He smiled slightly--the part of him which never quite shut off trying to supply everything he could, in fact, do about it--and redoubled his efforts until she was arching forward and keening, and his fingers were digging in where he was supporting her. 

“Belt. Pants. Undo them. Now,” she ordered. She extracted herself from his grasp, her legs shaking as she braced herself against the wall. He grinned up at her as he unbuckled his belt. She met his gaze with a blazing one of her own, the blush on her cheeks and at her throat almost belying the hunger still lurking behind her eyes. He reached for his jacket, and she snatched it from him.

“Pants,” she reminded him, her eyes not leaving his hands as her quick, slender fingers searched the lining pockets of his jacket for the condom. She found it almost immediately and held the wrapper delicately in her teeth as she pushed him down and onto his back, handling him with a firmness that bordered on rough.

She tore the wrapper open and slipped the thin polyurethane sheath over his leaking cock, making him groan and arch, every nerve in his body buzzing with need. Another moment and she had taken him in hand and was sliding down his length, the low moan escaping her throat and the pulsing heat of her cunt making his breath come hard and fast and ragged. Once she was properly seated, sheathing every millimeter of him, she grunted with some private satisfaction and leaned forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders and looking down at him.

“Perfect,” she muttered, her eyes glazed with desire as she took in his flushed face and mussed hair. “You’re just perfect like this. Absolutely perfect.”

He bit back a cry when she began rocking against him, her movements fast and hard and unforgiving, and then he was lost, his head thrown back and his eyes screwed shut and every muscle in his body coiled and aching. His hands found their way to her thighs, his fingers grasping her of their own accord like a drowning man holding a lifeline. She fucked him, rough and furious enough to bruise where her motions ground his back against the thin carpet, and didn’t let up until he was writhing and desperate under her. He felt like a drawn bow, ready for something, for anything, for the moment of release.

“Come for me, Bruce,” she growled, lowering herself to kiss him without breaking the rhythm of her thrusting. “Let me see you come.”

“Vicki,” he gasped, twisting under her helplessly. She ground her hips down ferociously and cried out, her eyes open and boring into his. And then he was over the edge, clutching her to him blindly and spilling into her and groaning against her. She collapsed onto him, her hands moving to his and prising them from her legs. She wrapped her fingers around his wrists and held them against the floor until she caught her breath.

“I’ve been thinking of this since you walked in the door,” she whispered, her lips moving against his jaw.

“Really?” he managed, still panting. “I’d never have guessed.”

“You, Mr. Wayne, have an answer for everything,” she murmured, her voice roughened and verging on hoarse. 

He shuddered as her cunt tightened around him one last time. She reached between them and held the base of the condom in place as she dismounted. She smoothed her dress back down and crouched over him one last time, nudging his mouth open and sliding her tongue against his. He kissed her back until she broke away, then went through the motions of making himself presentable again. Vicki shot him a quick wink before disappearing out the door.

Bruce got to his feet slowly. He felt shell-shocked and warm, almost clumsy. He’d never make it out the front entrance looking like this, he thought. He ought to slip out the back before anyone missed him. He wiped his face on a handkerchief and pulled on his belt. His jacket and tie could wait until he’d found a restroom with a mirror. He smiled to himself, letting it turn into almost a grin. He hadn’t felt this right in his own skin for almost two months. It felt good to get his feet back under him.

* * *

Clark shifted uncomfortably and dropped his head to murmur in Lois’s ear. “Do you think we’ve got enough? Time to head out, maybe?”

Lois frowned and scanned the crowd. “Sure. What’s up? You need to report for duty on ‘another lead’?”

“I wish,” Clark said.

“Maybe we should wait for Bruce Wayne to turn back up. He is one of the headliners today,” she mused.

“I wouldn’t bother,” Clark said quietly, pitching his voice low so it didn’t travel past her. “He’s, uh, _otherwise occupied_ at the moment.”

“ _Ah_ ,” she said, her voice carrying a little too much enthusiasm. “You want to pull the car around, then?”

He nodded sharply and excused himself past the row of attendants at the front of the room.

He was blushing to the tips of his ears by the time they were on the road. Lois laughed again and shook her head.

“I still can’t believe they just took off for a quick shag in the middle of the party,” she told him, her tone measuring. “I mean, on her part, obviously, I can believe it. Vicki Vale wants what Vicki Vale wants, and she has a way of getting it, too. But _Bruce Wayne_?”

Clark gritted his teeth a little and thought of the slick, shallow playboy, floating from clique to clique, glad-handing the men and flirting with the women, smile never reaching his eyes, meaning none of it. “What’s there to disbelieve about him doing the same thing?”

“My sources,” she wiggled her eyebrows a little, “say he’s a third-date kind of guy. If he’s putting out in a bathroom within five minutes of running into someone? That counts as _intel_ , Mr. Lane.”

“I think it was a coatroom, actually. And what kind of intel, Mrs. Kent?” he asked, his lips twisting. 

She was in a good mood, at least. There were times he’d give a great deal for the ability to turn his super-hearing off, and insipid billionaires having disturbingly intense sexual encounters in a semi-public place had unexpectedly shot to the top of the list. He blushed again at the memory of what Vale had been saying to him-- _“I’m going to fuck you right here on the floor.”_ and _“You’re just perfect like this.”_ \--and Wayne’s own wordless moans and gasps in response to what she’d been doing to him.

Lois snorted. “Well, either Mr. Bruce “Pants. Now.” Wayne can be persuaded to be less of a gentleman if the right bait is used, or Ms. Vicki “I’m Going to Fuck You in a Cloakroom” Vale has snagged herself a beau and they’re keeping it quiet. Either of which will be earth-shattering news in certain circles.”

“What do your girlfriends all see in him, anyway?” Clark asked wearily.

Her eyebrows shot up. “You’re joking. Oh my god, you’re not joking. Clark, he’s eligible, young, and rich. And even if he weren’t, I don’t know if you happened to notice this around the trauma of having to listen to him make it with a gossip columnist, but he’s practically _sex in a suit_.”

“Yeah, I get that. But he’s just so, so...” He made a face. “Vacant. There’s no _there_ there. That would have to get old pretty quickly.”

“I don’t know, Clark,” she teased, pretending to seriously consider his point. “I hear someone being hot and loaded has a way of making them seem a lot more interesting than they really are. I think the ten o’clock crew is even running a segment on it tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled. 

She reached over and prodded him a little, her fingertips light against his ribs. “I get that he’s no Batman, but c’mon. Not everybody’s going to have access to a space station full of superheroes in skin-tight outfits to pick from. Some of us mere mortals are stuck having to settle for impossibly handsome, wealthy, sexually cooperative dullards.”

“Lois!” he choked, his face turning even brighter red.

She shot him a grin, then relented a little and dropped her hand to his, squeezing it firmly. “Don’t worry about it, Clark. Whatever Tall, Dark, and Vengeful is upset about, he’ll get over it. Just be patient. If you think about it, it’s probably a miracle he’s gone this long without acting out a little. Just imagine how nuts you’d want to go if you kept rounding up guys like the Joker only to have them break right back out less than a year later. Is there anyone on his usual-suspect list that _doesn’t_ head straight for the town reservoir with a barrel of poison the second they hit the street?”

“I’d want to, maybe, but I still wouldn’t,” he sighed, crossing his arms.

“Yes, but remember-- _he’s_ only human.” She gave him a crooked little smile and patted his knee.

“I know, but...it’s like he’s hardly a member of the League anymore. We might as well have a Magic 8-Ball with a cowl on it sitting in his chair.”

“That’s...quite a mental picture, Smallville,” she said, smothering a laugh.

Clark threw up his hands. “I wish it were less accurate. He runs logistics, and he checks in with updates on whatever cases we’re working, but, outside of that, he really might as well not exist.” He shook his head. “Even Flash has started remarking on it. I get that Gotham comes first, second, and third for him, but I’ve been up one end of Crime Alley and down the other, and I still haven’t seen anything to indicate that there’s a bigger problem than usual. All the heavy hitters are still locked up, and their crews are keeping a low profile.”

“Maybe try talking to him about it again?” Lois suggested. “Or have Wonder Woman take a whack at it? You said he seemed to be getting along pretty well with her.”

“If he was avoiding the League at large, that might work,” he agreed, sinking down in his seat a little. “But he seems to be avoiding me a lot more than everyone else. Dragging Diana into the middle of it would probably only cause more trouble.”

“Maybe you could get your mom to make a batch of her famous cookies, put them out in the Watchtower, and drop a crate over him when he goes for one. Then just don’t let him out until he tells you what he’s pissed off about.”

Clark stifled a groan and rolled his eyes. “Lois, honey, he’s the world’s greatest detective, not Solomon Grundy.”

“Yeah, but _you_ know he’s the world’s greatest detective, and _he_ knows that you know he’s the world’s greatest detective. That’s why he’ll never see something as stupid as that coming. He’ll walk right into it.”

“I’ll put it in the ‘maybe’ pile,” he assured her, a smile finally creeping back across his face.

“There’s my ray of sunshine,” she said fondly.


	2. Chapter 2

Batman clung to Superman’s neck, trying desperately to ignore the way the Kryptonian’s fingers dug into his thigh just above his knee and his ribs just below his shoulder. It was as if he’d deliberately found the spots where the armor gave way in favor of unrestricted movement, where his touch would fall on fabric over flesh instead of kevlar and nomex. Bruce was grateful for the thick leather of his gauntlets; at least his own hands were insulated against the temptation of the body beneath the thin blue suit. He took a deep, steadying breath. He’d spent the last two weeks trying to maintain the hard-won feeling of calm his encounter with Vicki had bought him. Clark had managed to obliterate it in under ten seconds.

The rush of the wind made conversation impossible, and he had no idea if Superman could still see the Flash ahead of them or if he was charting a course based on extrapolation and hope. He ran through the list of possible explanations for Wally’s strange behavior. Mind control, a private alert going out, a chemical agent, a medical emergency....If he’d been fully in control of his faculties and didn’t want to be followed, there would be no way Superman could keep up with him while safely carrying a passenger. The way his expression had gone slack and empty directly prior to him turning and bolting--not toward Central City--inclined Batman toward the mind control hypothesis. 

It had been a little jarring, and more than a little instructive, to see Flash moving at speed but without his customary control. It had been _intensely_ jarring to find himself being abruptly scooped up by Superman and carried along in pursuit of the speedster. He hoped Shayera was having better luck triangulating the Flash’s destination than he was. He’d managed to type out a quick message describing the emergency around his death-grip on Clark’s neck, but he had yet to receive a reply. Why Superman had assumed he’d be of more use in the air with him than on the Watchtower with full access to their monitoring and surveillance equipment, he couldn’t guess. It was of some small comfort that, however inappropriate and distracting his attraction to the man might be, it was not strong enough to overcome his acute dislike of being picked up or his even more acute dislike of flying under someone else’s power.

Superman’s grip on him tightened slightly, trapping him more firmly against the alien’s chest. He could feel Clark’s heartbeat, steady and unhurried against his side. He ratcheted up his own hold instinctively, and a half-second later they had changed course, veering sharply to the right, and increased speed. He still had a line of sight on Wally, then. That was some relief. Whatever the Flash was doing, he wasn’t moving flat-out. Starro typically favored either civilians or powerhouses; it was unlikely he’d have chosen Wally over Superman. Grodd made more sense, but he had a limited range and the ability to influence a large number of people at once. Flash would have moved out of his area of influence by now, and it was unlikely he’d have focused solely on Wally. He checked the comm again. Still no messages from the Watchtower.

The activation of a previously-introduced chemical to Wally’s system was a possibility, but they’d need to catch up to him before they could verify it. He had a quick enzyme test in his utility belt for most of Poison Ivy’s known formulations and Scarecrow’s toxin, but anything more in-depth would have to be done in a proper lab. And, of course, even if the tests came up positive, he wasn’t carrying enough antidote to adequately dose an adult metahuman with Flash’s enhanced metabolism. All of which assumed that, if it was the result of a drug, it was the work of a known chemistry-abusing villain rather than a new one. Flash hadn’t mentioned any altercations, strange encounters, or new threats.

The comm buzzed, and he shifted his arm so that he could read the screen. “Flash stopped. Coordinates as follows.” He considered the position. Oklahoma. Rural Oklahoma. A strange destination for an active mind-control case. Superman was already slowing, letting him get the first good look around since the chase had started. Cornfields, grain silos, the occasional barn and farmhouse. Nothing out of the ordinary to the naked eye. He glanced at his scanner. No unusual radio signals or energy signatures. Superman didn’t relax his grip, and it was difficult not to protest. It was bad enough that he was going to be feeling the ghost of that touch, that heartbeat, for some time, but he needed to _focus_. Flash was in trouble. They could all be in similar danger. Now was not the time to be splitting his attention between the problem at hand and his immediate, visceral need to not spend another second wound around Clark like a strand of ivy on a garden fence.

Superman came to a complete stop, hovering over Flash where he stood in the middle of a dirt road, looking perplexed. He spotted them as Superman began his descent.

“Uh, guys, where are we?” he asked hesitantly, his hand on his cowl and his expression unhappy and vaguely frightened.

“Oklahoma,” Bruce growled, sliding out of Clark’s arms and stepping away from him as soon as he loosened his hold.

“Okay. That explains all the corn, I guess. Uh, _why_ are we in Oklahoma?” Wally asked, looking around. “And how did we get here?”

“We were kind of hoping you could fill us in on that one, Flash,” Superman said, glancing to Batman in silent appeal. Bruce ignored him. _If you wanted an answer to that, you shouldn’t have dragged me halfway across the country with no access to live reports or deep-feed scanners._

“We were talking about a suspected contact that Intergang was making down in Central City. You stopped talking, zoned out, and then took off. This is where you stopped running. Any of this ringing a bell?” Batman told him flatly.

“Uh, I remember telling Supes I saw one of the Intergang honchos paying a visit to some small-timers. I don’t remember any of the other stuff.” He chafed his arms, shifting from one foot to the other. “Did I _say_ anything? Do anything?”

“No, you just ran,” Clark said, his brow furrowing. “We should...” He looked to Batman again.

“Watchtower. Isolation ward. We’ll start with a body scan and a full blood-panel.”

“That. We’ll do...that. We’ll figure this out, Flash,” Superman promised. 

Batman’s eyes narrowed behind the white lenses. As comforting as it was sometimes to know that there was back-up out there, that he was part of a team, this was the corollary. There were obligations that came with the advantages. The team was vulnerable in a way that a lone individual was not. An attack on one was an attack on all, and there were as many targets to hit as there were league members. Superman making assurances he couldn’t guarantee wasn’t helping soften that sharp fact.

“Shayera? Can you get a lock on us?” he asked, touching the comm.

“All three of you,” she confirmed. “Is Flash all right?”

“He’s uninjured. We need him in the sickbay for evaluation as soon as possible.”

“Done.”

He felt the wash of warmth over his skin and saw the momentary ice-green glow of the transporter working.

* * *

“So, what happened?” Lois asked him as he spooned another helping of lasagna onto his plate. Clark shook his head, chewing.

“A lot of chemistry stuff I didn’t quite follow,” he said after swallowing. “And a lot of stuff I followed completely about Intergang getting fed a formula for a new party drug that turns out to be a highly modified form of Scarecrow’s fear toxin. Batman’s probably throwing people out of windows in Gotham’s dockside warehouses right now, looking for Crane’s chemists. The Central City police have already raided the lab manufacturing the stuff based on an anonymous tip, but you’ve seen the articles on that. Bats pinpointed the location based on wind patterns and the local spike in minor crime, emergency calls, and misdemeanor assault. Flash didn’t get as high a dose as some of the people living and working downwind of the lab, but he still got enough to send him rabbiting across half the continent in a pure fight-or-flight response.”

“Is he going to be all right?”

“Yeah. It was out of his system so fast that Batman barely had time to confirm the drug’s presence. He’s synthesizing an antidote to the modified version based on the samples he took from the lab before it was raided. Flash is a little rattled, but he’ll be okay. Probably more than okay, given the way Shayera was fretting over him when I left. I don’t think I’ve seen anyone go from upset to preening in that short a time frame.”

“You make him sound like such a hound.”

“He kind of is,” Clark admitted. “I mean, he’s sweet about it, but he really kind of is.”

“So can I reclassify that grainy cell-phone video of you throwing Batman over your shoulder and making off with him as a non-guilty pleasure now that everything’s wrapped up?” she asked playfully.

“That wasn’t...I didn’t...You know it’s not...” he sputtered, blushing to his roots.

“A girl can dream, can’t she?” she said slyly, pouring him another glass of wine.

“You teasing me is definitely not helping,” he sighed, raising the glass to his lips.

“Is it really that bad? You said yourself he’s been almost back to normal the past two weeks. No more snubbing you, no more heat-vision death-glares from behind the mask, no more phoning in results and then hanging up.” She rinsed her plate in the sink and came back to the table.

He swirled the wine in his glass and then shrugged. “It’s still not the same. It’s like I found a way to rile him up that perfectly straddled the line between him telling me off then and there and sulking until I apologized and him not saying anything but getting over it in a few hours.”

“Maybe he finally figured out that you think he’s hot, and he’s infuriated that you didn’t tell him sooner,” she suggested, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and dipping her head to kiss the back of his neck.

He grimaced. “I don’t think he’s interested in men, Lois. And even if he is in the abstract, he definitely doesn’t like _me_ touching him. It’s like he finds it personally offensive that I have to pick him up to fly him somewhere.”

“His loss,” she said, tracing his spine with a row of quick kisses and pulling him tighter against her.

“Mmm,” he purred, contented. “You can just stay right there for a few minutes, you minx.”

His hands slid over her wrists, and he worked the pads of his thumbs gently over her palms. She leaned against him, burying her face in the crook of his neck. She kissed and nibbled along the tense muscles, and he softened against her, the fear and stress of the incident beginning to ebb. She sucked his earlobe between her teeth and bit down, just hard enough to register as a nip. He turned his face to press his lips to hers, and she melted against him, her breasts warm and solid against his back and her hands tracing down along the hard plane of his stomach. She tugged his belt open with practiced ease, and he tangled one hand in her dark hair, drowning in the smell of her skin and the taste of her lips. She rested more of her weight against his shoulder, her hand reaching further, unfastening his trousers and working the zipper down to give her more room to maneuver. He pushed his tongue against hers, moaning softly against her mouth as her fingertips traced the length of his hardening shaft. Her nails dragged lightly over invulnerable skin, and he shivered.

“Shall we decamp to a more suitable location?” she asked, pulling back just far enough to see his eyes. “Or is another kitchen table a sacrifice you’re willing to make?”

“Bedroom,” he grunted, her fingers wrapping around him and driving all thought of the day’s worries from his mind. “I’m running out of places to buy replacement tables without raising some questions.”

They stripped each other with an efficiency born of long habit, leaving a trail of discarded clothing behind them on the way to the bed. Lois pushed him back onto it and watched him for a moment. He flushed, his thickening cock restless against his stomach, and extended a hand, reaching for her.

“You are so unbelievably handsome, you know that?” she asked, shaking her head. His blush deepened.

“You’re nothing to sneeze at yourself,” he told her with a grin. He pushed a few stray strands of black hair behind his ear.

“Well, that’s nice to hear,” she said, rolling her eyes. She gave in and let him pull her down on top of him. He engulfed her in a hug, rolled them over, and began nuzzling her neck, waiting until she was laughing again before moving down to the full curve of her breasts. His tongue traced firm circles around one nipple while his hands played over her skin, his thumb running over her other nipple until it was firm and peaked.

He ran his hands over her waist and hips and kissed her belly as he moved down her body. He came to rest between her legs, tracing the joint of her hip with his lips. She brought a knee up against his shoulder and nudged him firmly to the side.

“I’ve got a better use for that lovely mouth of yours,” Lois smirked, pushing him firmly onto his back and herding him further up toward the headboard.

“Not possible,” he informed her.

“You say that now,” she murmured, crouching between his knees. She slid her palms up the knotted muscles of his inner thighs, coaxing his legs further apart, and then up and over his hips. She dropped her head to lick a thin, firm stripe from the base of his cock to the tip, making him groan. “I want you to tell me every last thing you want to do to Batman.”

“Lois!” he gasped, his blush returning with a vengeance. She smiled at him and licked her lips.

“Everything,” she repeated firmly, digging her fingers into his hips. He reflexively jerked upward at the pressure, and she knew she had him.

“You sure?” he asked thickly, his eyes fluttering shut as she stroked him with a feather-light touch. Her thumb circled his glans and rubbed over his slit.

“What do you think?” she demanded. 

“I think--ah!--I think you’re sure,” he gasped as she began stroking him more firmly. 

She moved back until she knelt between his thighs again. One hand braced on his hip and the other slid through the dark curls between her legs, her fingers drawing over her vulva and coming to a rest on her clit. He watched her hungrily, and she smiled at him, her face glowing and her eyes dark.

“Well?” she prompted, bending forward.

“I want--” He sucked in a breath as her mouth closed around his shaft. Her fingers and her tongue were moving in slow circles. He groaned wordlessly as the tip of her tongue worked around the edge of his foreskin.

“Keep talking,” she ordered, pulling away only long enough to prod him.

“I want to peel him out of that suit,” Clark blurted, squirming under her ministrations. “I want to strip him bare and feel every inch of his skin.”

She hummed appreciatively and took him deeper into her mouth, encouraging him. He shifted under her, his fingers crooking into the sheets. “I want to pull him down with me and make him come until he can’t think straight.”

He stammered for a moment when she swallowed against the head of his cock, and the soft, wet sounds of her fingers working against her own folds made him want to push her back and bury his face in her cunt until she was digging her heels into his ribs and screaming in pleasure.

“Don’t you dare stop now,” she warned, her voice hoarse and low. He could feel her muscles tightening through the pressure of her arm on his leg, and her need translated immediately into the roughness of her tongue and mouth on his cock. He grunted as she pressed down, then drew up again with agonizing slowness.

“I want--god, Lois, you’re going to kill me,” he panted. She squeezed his thigh and didn’t slow her pace. “I want to open him--ah!--open him up and fuck him until he can’t--nng!--remember anything but my--ah!--name.”

Her nails dug into his skin abruptly. She pulled off his cock and moaned, arching over him and shivering as she came. He watched her, every nerve in his body pulsing with lust, until she was half-spent. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and gave him a look that was almost feral. He surged forward, his lips meeting hers as his hands wrapped around her waist and guided her down. She pushed at him, urging him into a better position, and thrust her hips up to grind against him. He grunted when she trapped his cock, still wet with her saliva and his own pre-come, against his belly.

“Come on, Clark,” she breathed. “I need--” She threw her head back and bucked as he lined up properly, his head resting against her entrance. “Fuck, yes, god, now--” She hooked one heel around his ass and pulled him forward, writhing against him as he slid into her. “Yes!”

“Not going to--” He hissed as she sank her teeth into his shoulder. “Not going to last long,” he told her, “after--hnn!--that.”

“Don’t care,” she panted. “Just need a little--Clark, ah, _fuck_ \--a little more....”

He pounded into her, his strokes fast and deep, until she thrust wildly against him and cried out again, her legs tightening mindlessly around him and her fingers clutching his hair. He groaned in her ear and his vision went white as he emptied into her, feeling every quiver and twitch of her body down to his marrow. She pulled him hard against her for a second before relaxing, letting him draw away or not as he wanted. He kissed his way down her throat and chest before rolling over to curl up against her.

“Happy?” he murmured, burying his face in her hair.

“For now,” she shot back, wriggling back until she was firmly wedged against his chest. 

He mock-groaned and wrapped his arms around her. “Sometimes I think you might be more dangerous than kryptonite.”

“Only sometimes?” She ran her palms over the back of his hands and interlaced her fingers with his. “I’m going to have to step up my game.”


	3. Chapter 3

Superman hovered in the shadows, watching the party in the courtyard below. He felt like he might as well have announced his presence with a bullhorn, for all the camouflage his suit provided, and silently cursed Batman’s stubbornness. It was one thing for him to tell the League to stay out of his city, that he had things handled. It was another thing entirely for him to tell the League to stay out of his city, that things didn’t need to be handled. Had he expected them to just sit on the intel Flash had gotten from one of his contacts? Poison Ivy was targeting Bruce Wayne, planning to hit him at the Springtime Ball, and he’d expected them to ignore it just because he was? Superman snorted to himself. He probably knew it was a bad lead, and he hadn’t felt like sharing. Still, it was strange. He was normally so fanatical about keeping everyone else out of “his” city. If he had something that would have shut down their interest in the case, it wasn’t like him not to put it on the table. God knew Superman wasn’t in any mood to babysit one of the idle rich without a good reason.

He winced a little at the sound of Wayne’s laughter echoing over the rest of the crowd. He was sweeping a petite woman with platinum blonde hair across the dance floor, and she’d apparently said something too amusing to merit a subdued chuckle. Clark rubbed his temples. If it had been anyone but Wayne, they might have been able to warn him off the event, advise him to stay at home and hire extra security, and given Batman some time to work after he’d resolved whatever he was currently too busy with to care about a kidnapping plot. But the man seemed to be scheduled for every fund-raiser, charity ball, bachelor auction, and normal, ordinary, no-benefit-to-anyone party happening in the entire city for the next month. There didn’t seem to be a point to warning him off of one when Ivy would simply pick him up at another, or warning him off everything when that would tip their hand to the villainess. Especially when it was _Ivy_. Having watched Batman deal with her over the years, he’d come to the strong conclusion that her plans, much like her plants, were best ripped out at the root as cleanly and efficiently as possible.

His gaze flickered over their unwitting charge. He was still dancing and laughing, oblivious to the danger he was in. Everyone else on the dance floor was giving the couple a generous berth, with a few of the women throwing encouraging winks and smiles at the blonde and a few others glaring daggers at her turned back. Wayne was moving with a loose grace, and she was clinging to him with an easy self-confidence. None of the guests were behaving oddly. A few of the servers seemed a little unlikely for the upper-crust nature of the event, but they were doing their jobs with a practiced efficiency that argued against them being ringers. He switched to x-ray vision and checked the cellar and storage rooms where someone might go undiscovered for a few hours. Nothing.

Half an hour passed. More guests arrived, but no one suspicious. Wayne flitted from a knot of his peers to a handful of fund beneficiaries to a pair of the event organizers and back to another circle of fellow-socialites. Clark fought the urge to shift position again. Maybe the information was bad, after all. Another hour, and the ball would be drawing to a close. Flash’s informant had specified that Poison Ivy had wanted to strike during the event itself, not after. She’d wanted to make a splash and show off a little. If it was true, she’d need to show up soon.

As if on cue, one of the guests separated herself from the mingling crowd and started moving toward Wayne. She matched Ivy's general description but not the specifics, and Superman hesitated, scanning the contents of her handbag. An atomizer and what he tentatively identified as one of Freeze's one-shot pistols. It was Ivy, and she was making her move. Time for him to make his. He darted from his perch, getting between her and an oblivious Wayne just as she reached into her purse. She produced the atomizer, her smile sliding into a look of stunned anger as she registered his presence.

"Give it up, Poison Ivy. I'm taking you in," he said firmly.

"Look out!" Wayne snapped behind him. Ivy's lips curled into a snarl and her eyes narrowed; she looked as if she'd come to a decision. She pressed the atomizer's button, sending a cloud of golden dust straight into his face. Superman reeled back, blinking furiously. He coughed and sputtered, felt pavement under his hands, and wondered when he'd dropped to his knees.

"Silver, darling, I think everybody needs to get out of here _now_ ," Wayne said quietly, off to his left. It sounded like they were miles away. Then the fire alarm was going off, and people were moving past him, and the pavilion was full of the sounds of vague panic. 

He wasn't coughing anymore, but he couldn't bring himself to move. His mouth tasted like pollen, his throat was raw, and his mind was refusing to work. Someone was taking his wrist and pulling his arm around their shoulders. Strong, broad shoulders. Batman's shoulders, he thought. Batman's here. Of course he is. He felt his mouth curling into a grin and tried to stop it; the last thing he needed right now was an extra-irritable Bat growling at him that he looked like an idiot. The shoulders lifted, and Batman was hoisting him to his feet. He let himself be guided back to the tables and deposited in a chair. He blinked again, trying to clear his eyes. No, it wasn't Batman after all. Bruce Wayne was in front of him and turning away to grab one of the pitchers from the table.

"...don't swallow," he was saying. He pressed the pitcher to Superman's lips, one hand on Superman's shoulder. "You need to rinse your mouth..."

Superman obeyed, washing the odd taste of strong honey and dust out of his mouth, his mind drifting. Had Wayne's--Bruce's--voice always been so warm? He could listen to it forever. The feel of the man's hand on his shoulder was strangely pleasant, reassuring. He started when a pitcherful of cold water washed over his face and chest. Wayne was talking again, and he tried to listen.

"...powerful aphrodisiac derived from one of Poison Ivy's mutant hybrids," he said. His voice was hypnotic, rough and calm and commanding. Clark wanted to drown in it. "...you need to call your friends."

His friends? But Batman was right here. He shook himself. No, that was Bruce. Bruce was right here. Why did he keep imagining Batman? When he closed his eyes, though, it sounded like Batman. He looked around, trying to think. When had it become so hard to think? His uniform was constricting around him, the soft fabric chafing his skin like sandpaper. The mist Poison Ivy had sprayed on him, Batman had said it was...no, not Batman. Bruce. Wait, hadn't Bruce been in danger? He tried to focus. Ivy had been after Wayne. He was here to keep the man safe. Ivy was...he didn't know where she was. She had been here. They were in the middle of a courtyard, completely exposed. Sirens and alarms were going off all around them. He needed to do something, but he couldn't think, couldn't breathe. 

Bruce's hand was heavy on his shoulder, and his voice was rumbling, almost purring in his ear, drowning out the sirens. "Superman, listen to me. You need to call the League. You need help. The pollen..."

And then he had the man in his arms, cradled against him, and they were in the air. He'd been there to rescue Bruce, to keep him safe. That much at least was penetrating the thick fog smothering his thoughts. The man hadn't been injured. Ivy hadn't taken him, hadn't hurt him. He was with Clark, heavy and warm against him, his arms sliding around Clark's neck for a better grip. It hit him like an electric shock that he knew that grip, knew that weight in his arms, knew that voice hissing in his ear that they needed to put down. He listened mechanically, already drifting to the nearest safe rooftop. Batman. He had _Batman_ in his arms, cradled against him. Safe. Secure.

His feet touched the roof, and Bruce was moving, ordering him to let go, put him down. All the imperiousness of Batman's voice. He rebelled against the command even as he felt the stupid grin returning. Had it ever left? He couldn't remember. It didn't seem important, certainly less important than the man in his arms, less important than keeping him there. He wasn't wearing his armor. Clark had imagined holding him without the armor between them, but he hadn't imagined it being this good. He turned his head, trying to bury his face in Batman's--Bruce's, his name was _Bruce_ , how long had he wondered about _that_?--bare neck. He shivered. Everything the cowl normally covered was bare, open. He inhaled sharply _His face_. His face, with no mask over it. His eyes.

Clark relaxed, lowering the arm hooked under Bruce's knees, letting him twist and slide until his feet were on the ground. He kept the arm behind Bruce's--Batman's--shoulders where it was, pressing him close, breathing him in. He ran his hand through the thick shock of wavy black hair. It was cool from the night air and silky against his fingers. He lowered his hand slightly and ran his thumb over Bruce's cheekbone. The eyes glowering back at him from above it were such a perfect, dark blue. Clark chuckled.

"Superman, listen to me..."

"Your eyes are blue," Clark murmured happily.

"You've been drugged. You need to call Green Lantern or Hawkgirl."

"Your eyes are blue," he repeated softly. "I always wondered."

The expression in them hardened. "Listen to me," he repeated firmly. “The pollen you inhaled...”

Clark cut him off with a kiss, his hand slipping back to cup the nape of his neck. He pushed his tongue into Bruce’s mouth and dug his fingers gently into Bruce’s back, enjoying the give and pliance of warm flesh instead of the hard resistance of cold armor. Cloth and skin instead of the body armor he always wore when they were on duty. Bruce tasted of sweet wine and dark chocolate. He groaned softly as Bruce’s hands came up to rest on his chest, and he wondered why he hadn’t thought to do this before. Batman’s mask didn’t cover his mouth. Why hadn’t he ever risked a kiss? He shouldn’t have waited so long. It was perfect. He never wanted to stop. He wanted more. He wanted _everything_. 

He could feel Bruce’s heart pounding in his chest, faster than normal, like he’d been running or sparring. The pressure of Bruce’s hands--his hands, not his gauntlets--on his chest was too hard, too set. He pulled his head back slightly, relinquishing Bruce’s lips and loosening his grip. Bruce was pushing him away. He fought the urge to immediately pull him back into a close embrace. Something was wrong.

“Superman, you need to listen to me,” he said, his voice sounding almost desperate, almost hoarse. “You’re not in control of yourself. This is all because of Ivy’s pollen. This isn’t what you want.”

“Of course it is,” Clark protested thickly. He pulled him back gently, bent his head, and began kissing a slow line down Bruce’s throat from ear to shoulder. He was rewarded with a shiver, and he smiled into the crook of Bruce’s neck. “Just you. I just want you.”

“Mmm.” Bruce started to melt against him, and Clark wondered how much better holding him would be if he could just get them out of their clothes, if he could feel the heat of Bruce’s body directly against his skin. “Not here, though.”

Clark blinked and looked around. No, Bruce was right. Batman was always right, wasn’t he? Somewhere else. Somewhere more private. Somewhere they wouldn’t be interrupted.

“And I need you to do something for me,” he murmured, his breath warm on Clark’s neck.

“Anything,” Clark promised, sucking a small mark onto his shoulder. He could cover him with such marks, he realized. The suit would conceal them. He’d be the only one to know. He swallowed hard, a wave of need crashing over him. His hands tightened on Bruce’s body. “ _Anything_.”

“I need you to let go of me,” Bruce whispered. He hesitated, unable to make his muscles obey him. Bruce turned his head, brushing a soft kiss across his lips. “Please.”

Batman saying please. Asking him to _please_ do something for him. Clark felt his nerves light up, and he moved slowly, disentangling himself. He was rewarded with the ghost of a smile, small and intimate and just for him, as Bruce stepped away from him a pace. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself. He needed the man back in his arms like he needed to breathe. He already felt like his blood was on fire with the absence.

“Can you find your emergency beacon?” Bruce asked, his voice pitched low and firm. His eyes were dark with desire and focused on him, burning into him. “I want you to touch it. Put your hand on it. For me. Can you do that?”

The timbre of his voice and want in his tone sent lust like a lightning strike coiling down his spine. _Anything, yes, anything, just keep talking to me, keep sounding like that, keep looking at me with those eyes_. Bruce smiled again, a little crooked. A little crooked and completely charming. How had he never seen this side of him before? They’d been working together for years, and he’d never gotten to see this. He was perfect like this.

“Run your fingers over it. Yes, just like that,” Bruce instructed, purring. He did, fighting back a needy whine. He wanted that voice in his ear, crying encouragement into his throat as Clark took him, made him come over and over again. Bruce’s breath was coming faster, as if he could hear his thoughts.

“You’re doing so good. Press down, just a bit. Right there. Just for me,” he urged. Clark’s fingers spasmed, almost involuntarily, at that and triggered the rescue mechanism. He started as he was engulfed in green light, and Bruce and the rooftop and Gotham faded away.

* * *

Bruce exhaled, relieved and shaking, as Superman vanished. He was on the Watchtower. Shayera and John were on duty. They’d get him into the medical wing, get him stabilized. Ivy and her damn aphrodisiac pollen. His skin was on fire where Clark had touched him, kissed him, held him. His cock was hard and leaking against his boxers. The adrenaline coursing through his blood hadn’t affected his desire in the slightest. 

He should get under cover, before they did a scan of Superman’s point of origin. He should call in and make sure they knew exactly what they were dealing with. He made himself move, just as he’d made himself push Clark away. His hands were stiff and cold on the handle of the access door to the building’s stairwell. His normal agility had completely deserted him. He tried, with no small difficulty, to get himself under control. He shouldn’t be aroused. He should be better than this. Superman’s behavior had been a sick mockery of what he wanted, his desire compelled by an external force, his actions provoked by an overwhelming exposure to weaponized pheromones. Ivy’s pollen had turned Clark into a puppet. 

He took a deep breath and focused on that. Clark would never have consented to such contact under normal circumstances. Clark would never have voluntarily conducted himself in such a fashion. Clark would be appalled when the effects wore off. The lust darkening his eyes, the eagerness with which he’d reached for him, the need animating his hands and his lips and the hard member he’d pressed against him....It had all been a passing effect conjured by the drug and nothing more.

Bruce shook himself. He had to contact the Watchtower. He had to return to the cave, begin vetting the antidote for use in Kryptonians. He had to keep moving. Time and removal from Clark’s presence were starting to roll back the suffocating blanket of lust from his mind. 

_Come up with a plan_ , he told himself. _Keep thinking. Move the pieces until they fit together._

He touched his League communicator.

“Green Lantern, Hawkgirl, come in. Is Superman on the Watchtower?” he asked, schooling his voice into its normal cold, clipped precision.

“Batman?” Shayera barked over the communicator. “Do you know what the hell is going on?”

“Is Superman with you?” he repeated.

“Yes, and he’s...” she hesitated. “He’s been poisoned or drugged. He’s sweating bullets and muttering about blue eyes. He’s incoherent.”

A chill shot down through Bruce’s blood. “Listen very carefully, Shayera. Poison Ivy hit him with a powerful aphrodisiac pheromone less than fifteen minutes ago. Apparently he still had the presence of mind to seek assistance, but the effects are going to escalate over the next half hour or so. He needs to be sedated and closely monitored. Try to contact Lois Lane, the Daily Planet reporter he’s always rescuing. If she’s not in a romantic relationship with him, she might know the name of whoever is.”

“Okay. We can do that. I think.” He heard John’s voice in the background, his tone belligerent but the individual words unintelligible.

“Good. I’ll be in contact again shortly. Batman out.”

He cut the line before Shayera could protest and then turned the communicator off entirely. Next step, back to the cave. He’d put together a cover story for Bruce Wayne’s disappearance later. No, that wasn’t right. He wasn’t in costume. All he had to do was take a cab back to the manor. He took a deep breath. This wasn’t good. He was farther under the influence of the pollen than he’d felt. He needed to get home, and he needed to get home quickly. He made his way down the stairs and back out onto the street.

The ride back to the estate was a blur. The driver clearly thought him drunk, and he found himself unable to blame the man. He was flushed and sweating, his reaction time was off by an order of magnitude, and he was having difficulty getting his tongue around his words. He hoped Clark was faring better than he was. Before tonight, he hadn’t even been certain that Ivy’s pollen would work against Kryptonian physiology. The imprecise wisdom of teleporting an out-of-control alien with heat vision and titanic strength onto a space station was beginning to occur to him. His suit felt confining and coarse against his overheated skin. He closed his eyes and willed the distance to go by more quickly. He didn’t feel impaired, mentally; most of the noticeable side-effects were still physical in nature. He was almost certain that was an illusion, then absolutely certain when he realized that the driver was repeating something, trying to get his attention. They’d arrived. He couldn’t clearly remember the last ten minutes of the trip.

Bruce shoved a wad of bills at the man, hoping the excessively generous tip might prompt a small amount of discretion but doubting that his hope would be realized. Alfred greeted him at the door, unflappable as ever.

“Master Bruce,” he said blandly. “Miss St. Cloud has been calling for you. Shall I inform her that you’ve returned but are indisposed?”

“Please, Alfred,” he grunted, pulling off his jacket. “If anyone else calls, I’m fine, the Justice League are heroes, and no further comment.”

“Very good.” Alfred’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “And are you, sir?”

“Close enough to,” he growled. “I’ll be in the lab if you need me. And unless something’s on fire or the Joker’s escaped, you don’t need me.”

“Expecting a quiet evening at home, then,” Alfred said wryly. “Very good.”

Bruce snorted and made his way downstairs. The antidote. He’d need the antidote before he started work. He tore the rest of his suit off as soon as the door slid shut behind him, grateful for the privacy. The cool air of the cave was a blessed relief after the layers of cotton and silk.

He prepared the pale ochre solution methodically, running down the mental checklist three times before injecting himself. He’d designed the formula to be fast-acting, but that was to an objective observer. To the person actively experiencing the effects of the pollen, he expected it would still feel like an eternity. His fingers were shaking, and his skin felt scorched, singed. He was vulnerable and painfully exposed. The thought of someone else seeing him in such a state, of touching him when he felt this raw, made his stomach turn. 

_Anyone but Clark_ , he amended silently. 

The thought of _Superman_ touching him, of the firm, sure grip against his incandescent skin, almost made him double over with a groan. He rested his arm on the table and his head against his arm, his eyes closed tight, until the spasm passed. He could feel what little control he’d managed to retain in the face of the aphrodisiac’s effects slipping through his fingers. His cock was heavy against his thighs, and the memory of the naked lust in Clark’s voice sent another surge of desire crackling through his nervous system. He thought he was going to burst out of his skin if the antidote didn’t kick in soon.

He was grateful that he’d managed to get Clark transported to headquarters when he had. If he’d had to contend with Superman’s arousal now, he’d be gone. He didn’t have it in him to even hesitate. The feel of Clark’s tongue sliding insistently against his, the undiluted power in the man’s hands combined with the soft pleading in his voice...he’d have thrown himself into it without a second thought. Just the recollection was almost enough to short-circuit rational analysis. His fingers strayed to his throbbing shaft, and his hand was wrapping around the length before he realized what he was doing. Those bright blue eyes darkened with lust. The way he almost hadn’t been able to bring himself to let go. The rock-hard bulge barely contained by his uniform’s briefs. The sound of his voice when he’d said “ _Anything_.”

Bruce came with a sharp cry, spilling a hot white stripe over his hand and thigh. He panted into the silence for a long minute, enervated and blank. When he could move again, he looked down at the mess he’d made of himself. The chaotic, irresistible desire was dissipating even as the come was cooling against his skin. He sighed with relief. The antidote was working. Ivy’s ‘field-testing’ had demonstrated repeatedly that a single orgasm would hardly put a dent in an untreated exposure. He pulled himself up and moved to the shower. Even absent the immediate wish to clean up, he needed to decontaminate himself. That it hadn’t occurred to him earlier was a demonstration of the compromised state he’d been in. He’d doused Superman, but he hadn’t thought to rinse himself off. He needed to get his head on straight. Clark needed him.


	4. Chapter 4

“This is why I tell you people to stay the hell out of Gotham,” Batman snarled, stalking back and forth in front of the console. 

He’d lost precious time waiting for the antidote to take full effect. He’d needed to be sure his models and calculations had been based on the correct parameters, something he couldn’t do while his own mental state was highly suspect. He wouldn’t risk Clark’s well-being to an improperly analyzed compound.

“They’re dangerous enough when you’ve been dealing with them for years,” he continued, his tone hard and sharp. “Synthesizing countermeasures is difficult. Throw in alien biology, and it’s infinitely more so. This antidote is barely ready for use in a general human population. It’s going to be another half-hour before I can reliably tell you that it won’t hurt him. I can’t reliably tell you whether or not it will _help_ him. Assuming it’s benign, you’ll just have to administer it and hope. Have you gotten in touch with Lane yet?”

“She’s on assignment in South Africa. Conditions in diamond mines there,” Shayera informed him grimly. “They’ve gotten a message to the mine she’s touring, and they’ve promised to get her back topside as soon as possible, but it’s still going to be at least an hour.”

 _Goddammit_ , he thought.

“And what do you mean, we’ll have to administer it? You’re not coming?” John demanded.

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I was busy tonight,” he growled. “This is already time I couldn’t afford to lose. Me being there won’t make a damn bit of difference to him, but it’s going to make a big difference to anyone else Poison Ivy has her sights on tonight or the Joker has plans for tomorrow or Magpie’s targeting a week from now.”

“The Joker’s in lock-up, Bats,” Wally pointed out.

“Someone arranged for an escape and left a fake in his place. Gordon still hasn’t managed to get the decoy to spill on how big a head-start that maniac’s gotten out of this.” Alfred had informed him of that extremely unwelcome news before he’d even made it out of the shower.

“So I guess we’ll be seeing you when we see you,” John said flatly.

Batman scowled. “As much as I would love to spend the rest of the night staring at a vital sign monitor waiting for some indication of improvement, there’s a mass-murderer on the loose. So yes, you’ll be seeing me when you see me.”

He cut the feed and took a deep breath. The irony of it was that he actually _would_ prefer to spend the rest of the night monitoring Clark for signs that his state was improving. The wait after administering the rescue drug would be torture for everyone--he knew that from painful experience--but he still wished it was an option. He wasn’t sure whether to blame his compromised emotional state or his compromised physical state.

He cursed himself and paced like a tiger in a cage. Isley. With her mutated plant strains and their exotic toxins, her poisons and pheromones and mood-altering drugs had given him more trouble than half of the rest of Gotham’s most wanted list put together. He was constantly behind the curve on whatever she was developing, locked into a reactive state by the inadvisability of cultivating them without her influence keeping them in check. The only silver lining was that the chemicals were metabolically expensive to produce. Even when her plants were flourishing, they didn’t provide enough of any given substance for more than limited deployment against a fairly limited number of targets. Breaking up her greenhouses and going on a slash-and-burn through her gardens was a band-aid over something that needed stitches, but it was keeping her in check. Not that it had done Superman a damn bit of good. 

“Goddammit, Clark,” he sighed. 

His skin still itched, and the armor still felt tight and confining, and his heart was still hammering in his chest. The prospect of finding a willing partner and rutting against them like an animal was still extremely tempting. All that from, at a generous estimate, a fiftieth of the dose Superman had received, after the administration of the antidote, with the additional distractions of trying to verify the drug’s effect on a specific xenobiology and news of the Joker’s latest stunt. The Kryptonian had to be going out of his mind. Bruce slammed a fist down on the console hard enough to upset his coffee mug. 

He should have drawn a clearer line in the sand over League activity in Gotham. Batman was equipped to deal with the city’s dangers. He hadn’t been exaggerating there. He had a full mask with filters to keep the airborne threats out, antidotes for most of it in case that failed, and a working knowledge of compensating methods as a back-up. Not to mention that the compounds had been developed for use against a human population. If it turned out to be wildly more lethal or effective against Martians or Kryptonians or Thanagarians, the criminals responsible would doubtless be either gleefully patting themselves on the back over the corpses of his teammates or clinically noting their suffering for future reference. That Superman had been willing to ignore his warnings to stay out of the city in order to guard his alter ego was just the last and most grotesque wrinkle in the situation.

He pulled up the police logs for the past two weeks. He hadn’t found anything obvious while sifting through the reports on the Joker’s known associates. Quinzel still hadn’t been spotted. It was time to try the obscure. He glared at the computer as if he could will it into working faster on the antidote or into telling him where the Joker was.

* * *

J’onn phased through the door and nodded to the assembled knot of heroes. “The antidote has been administered. The only thing left to do is wait and see if it works, it seems.”

“Five to ten minutes, according to Batman.” John rubbed his chin.

“At least he was able to rig up an aerosol delivery system. I can’t imagine even you’d have been able to get a needle in him right now, J’onn,” Flash said, shifting uncomfortably. He blurred from one location to another before stopping guiltily at John’s sharp look. “Sorry. I’m just...it’s just nervous energy.”

“Shayera, how are we doing with Lane?” John asked, touching his comm.

“ETA fifteen minutes. She’s ready to go as soon as we can get a lock on her. Hopefully she’ll be able to help. Obviously we couldn’t give too many details without generating an unnecessary security risk.”

“Are we really that worried about security at a time like this?” Wally demanded. “Supes is a mess, and he needs her help.”

“We don’t even know if they’re actually dating, Flash,” John warned.

“And the last thing he would want is for his enemies to get wind of his condition and take advantage of it to attack Metropolis,” J’onn reminded him gently. “There is little honor amongst those who hate him. It would also have long-term ramifications if Lex Luthor were to discover the cause of his...indisposition. Even Batman seemed surprised that Poison Ivy’s pollen could affect Superman, given his Kryptonian heritage. It would be to no one’s advantage if Luthor seeks a partnership with Ivy.”

“His heart rate and blood pressure are beginning to drop. Body temperature is still elevated,” John muttered, staring at the monitors.

“That’s a good sign, right?” Flash asked.

“I’d think so.” He shrugged and shook his head. “Batman sent up the information he had on typical pollen cases, but Superman’s case isn’t typical. We’re still working blind here.” He coughed and glanced at J’onn. “Is there any way you can tell if his mental state is improving?”

The Martian gave him an inscrutable look. “His mind is still in a great turmoil, John Stewart. That is as far as I am willing to intrude without great cause, given the way this drug has affected him.”

They waited in tense silence, watching the monitor bank as Superman’s vital signs continued a steady but slow move back toward his normal readings.

“Look alive, boys. We’ve got Lane,” Shayera barked over the comm.

“Oh, thank god,” Wally muttered.

Lois’s firm, clipped “Where is he, and what’s happened to him?” carried over the speaker, followed by Shayera briefing her in terms that made Wally turn the same shade as his uniform.

“Shayera’s handling this, right? Someone needs to be on monitor duty, then? I’m just going to...”

“Good idea, Flash,” John said dryly. “We’ll let you know once his...condition improves.”

He bolted, passing Shayera and Lois fast enough to ruffle Shayera’s feathers. She tilted her head at John, who shrugged.

“Somebody needs to keep an eye on things while we’re dealing with this,” he pointed out.

Lois gave him a hard look. “No offense, Green Lantern, but I think the more eyes on other things while this gets dealt with, the better off everyone’s going to be.” Her expression softened as she looked past him to Clark. “Can we have a little privacy?”

“Just be careful, Lois. Superman isn’t in complete control of himself, and Poison Ivy’s aphrodisiac pollen has hit him hard.”

“Thank you for your concern. And for everything you’ve already done. I’ll take it from here,” she promised.

Shayera opened the sick bay door for her and tapped a few controls. The windows darkened enough to obscure the view from outside the room. “Good luck.”

Lois waved her off and made her way to Clark. Hawkgirl had warned her about the state he was in, but she wasn’t completely prepared for the lost look on his face. She pulled him close and murmured his name. Clark shuddered at her touch, his gaze unfocused and hazed over. She dug her fingers into his costume, tugging it off carefully.

“Lois?” he asked softly.

“It’s me, hon. I’m here.” She kissed his bare chest and wrapped her arms around him.

“Lois,” he groaned, arching into the stroke of her hands over his back. “I need you. _Now_.”

“Shh, I know, I know,” she said. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay.”

She stripped off her own clothes and pulled him against her, guiding his hands to her hips. He started at the contact and ground his slick cock against her belly. She sucked at his skin, her tongue feeling cool against his too-warm flesh. He shivered and let her push him back toward the bed, clinging to her and dragging her down with him when they finally reached it.

“Lois,” he hissed. She climbed on top of him and ran her fingers over his erection, her other hand pressing down on his chest. He cupped her breasts, kneading them gently and circling her nipples with his thumbs. It was hard to keep still under her; he felt like his skin was burning.

“I’m here,” she told him again, breathing hard. “Everything’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

Then she was kissing him, her tongue invading his mouth, and her hand was pumping his cock, and he was straining against her grip, the edges of his vision going white with relief. He came with a shout, spilling over her fingers and onto his stomach. He writhed under her, panting into her mouth, and she bit his lower lip fiercely.

“A little better?” she asked. He squirmed as she moved her hand, slowly teasing him. He was already stiffening again, and his mind was lost in the warm fog of the momentary afterglow.

“Fuck, Lois, more, please,” he gasped. 

She sucked at his neck and kissed a path down from his throat to his navel, using her teeth in the way she only did when he’d done something that actually frightened her and made her need to feel him firm and alive and whole in her arms. He was panting and whimpering with the effort of holding back after barely a minute. She slid her mouth down over his cock, enveloping him, and he bucked reflexively. Lois held him firmly, moving with him where she couldn’t hold him down, and took his movements in stride. He thrashed once more and came again, choking out her name. She swallowed around him, moving her tongue over his length as he groaned and shook.

Lois let go of his hips and climbed up to straddle him, her hands closing around his wrists and her eyes boring into his face. She was relieved to see the blank pliance receding slightly. He shifted under her weight, the unbearable need lessening to something more manageable.

“Hey,” she murmured.

“Where are we?” he asked, looking around carefully.

“The Watchtower. Poison Ivy loaded you up with sex pollen to cover her escape. Do you remember any of that?” she prompted gently, studying his expression.

He blushed. “That would explain a few things.”

Lois rocked back against his hardening member, and he grabbed her hips to still her, sucking in his breath through his teeth. He let it out slowly, trying to relax.

“Are you all right?” she asked softly.

He nodded tightly, biting his lip. He could still feel the tingle of her teeth digging into his mouth and her lips on his skin. “Might take a few more times before this is completely out of my system, though. Did Batman run out of the antigen for it?”

“You got the antidote before they beamed me up,” she told him.

“This is after--?” Clark blinked at her.

“Yeah, this is after.” She gave his wrists a squeeze and pulled his hands up to her breasts. He groaned and trembled underneath her. “You were in a hell of a state when you hit the emergency beacon.”

“I don’t remember any of it,” he said, pulling her down to kiss him.

“From the sound of it, you got pretty flattened by it,” she murmured, sucking his earlobe between her teeth and nipping it. He grunted and thrust against her.

“God, Lois, please, I need you to fuck me,” he begged. She straightened and dragged his hands up to rest against her. He obediently kept them there when she let go, stroking and teasing her nipples. She lifted up and rolled her hips, then slid halfway down his cock in one sure movement, pausing only to adjust her angle slightly and give him a moment. He whimpered and thrust up, rocking her forward. “Lois!”

She pushed back, taking in his length until she had him to the root. He groaned loudly before being reduced to small, gasping grunts as she began riding him hard and relentlessly, every inch of her animated with love and worry and lust and the need to see him come back to himself completely. He moaned and twisted under her, each moment seeming to stretch out into an eternity, then threw his head back and cried out. Lois thrust against him for another few seconds until she found her own climax, and his body tensed between her thighs as she arched over him.

Clark shivered as she crawled off him and lay down at his side. He pulled her close and curled around her, his lips on her ear. He still felt off-kilter and out of control, driven by a need outside of himself, but he felt like he was shaking off a fever. Her fingers were tracing his spine slowly, reassuringly, and he let himself melt under it. He tried to think, tried to remember what had happened. Lois had said Poison Ivy was responsible. He’d been...in Gotham. On assignment. Then the Watchtower? He chewed his lip. There were large chunks of the night missing. While he’d been drugged with an aphrodisiac. This, he thought, wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

* * *

Clark rubbed his eyes and read Batman’s report one more time. For all the assurances it contained about Wayne--he had been fine if confused, had reported that Superman was “acting weird” and had “turned into a green light and vanished,” and had been sent home--and about his own whereabouts and actions--no time unaccounted for based on Wayne’s statement and the time lapse between his disappearance and him locating his emergency beacon--he couldn’t shake the cold feeling in the pit of his stomach. Lois stirred next to him, mumbling something about him getting back under the covers, and he stroked her back until she fell asleep again.

It didn’t help that he still couldn’t think straight. He was tired but too jittery to sleep properly. It was strange, being out of commission without an injury. He couldn’t believe he’d let Ivy get the drop on him like that. He knotted the sheets absently in his hands, trying to keep his attention off the monitoring equipment focused on Gotham’s rooftops and streets. It was an utter failure. His impulse control was still completely shot, and he was reviewing the footage again before he had a chance to remember why he’d stopped in the first place.

The rest of the League had been a little chary about explaining Batman’s absence, beyond the typical, muttered “He said he was busy” excuses. He’d felt the hole in their group more keenly than usual and chalked it up to the residual effects of Ivy’s pollen. The vague sense of missing him had prompted him to check on what he was busy with. Clark sighed. Even on the third time through, the recordings made his stomach drop and his fingers curl too hard around the tablet. He’d cracked the first one without meaning to. 

Clark hadn’t seen Batman fight that way for a very long time. Desperately. Furiously. Like a man possessed. The first time he’d seen him move like that, he’d almost believed the legendary Batman of Gotham was a metahuman after all, reports to the contrary be damned. And tonight, Batman was like a machine. The looks everyone had given him when he suggested someone should offer an assist....He shook his head. Flash had pointedly asked if he looked like he really _needed_ it, and John had grunted that even if he did need it, he wouldn’t have taken kindly to the offer.

Clark winced sharply at one of the last things recorded, before they’d taken the fight to the interior of a warehouse and been lost to the cameras. Batman had engaged with the Joker, blows hitting home with an atypical ferocity, and he’d missed dodging a downswing of Harley Quinn’s mallet by perhaps a centimeter. It had been enough to stagger him. Clark didn’t think it had broken any ribs, not through the armor, but it had clearly hurt. Diana had only been able to calm him after he’d seen it the first time by explaining that she’d checked in with him afterwards and gotten the terse response of “I’m fine.”

He’d resolved to give the vigilante a stern talking to about being less territorial, bullheaded, and careless in the future once he could trust himself not to overreact to the inevitable fight it would start. He sighed. They were a team. They needed to act like it. Batman couldn’t keep ignoring them and shutting them out and pushing them away and abandoning them when they needed him....Clark took a deep breath, trying to steady his nerves. His heartbeat was still faster than normal, and his mind wouldn’t stop racing. Aftereffects of the pheromones. Get a grip, he told himself. Batman could look after himself. Everyone could look after themselves. The League could look after itself. They were far stronger together than they had been apart, but they were all still powers to be reckoned with as individuals.

He chafed his arms, closed his eyes, and tried to remember everything that had happened after Poison Ivy had dosed him. He wished there were more reports from past subjects in Batman’s files. Were confusion and partial memory loss common? He couldn’t even be sure how much time was really missing. Nothing made sense or fit into a real timeline; he couldn’t construct an actual account on his own. He was reduced to fitting what he did remember into Batman’s reconstruction like matching stray pieces in a half-completed jigsaw puzzle. It was a method prone to influence and error. Clark ran his hands over his face; his skin still felt too tight and too sensitive. 

Everything was a tangled snarl of warm skin and the cool night and dark hair and a rough voice in his ear, coaxing him to do something, and he couldn’t pick out where Lois began and everything else ended. She rolled over and curled against him.

“You should try to get some sleep,” she murmured, tugging him down beside her. He let her after a few seconds.

“Thank you for coming,” he sighed, pulling her closer. “I don’t know what I’d have done if you hadn’t.”

“The League would have come up with something,” she assured him, “but I’m hardly going to abandon you when you’re the one that needs rescuing.”

He smiled wanly at her before letting his head drop to rest on her shoulder. “Still. You were there for me when I needed you.”

“You’re always there when I need you.” She reached up and tousled his hair. “Stepping in when you get a face-full of a supercharged Love Potion No. 9 seems like the least I could do. Now, come on. Try to rest. You’re going to have to be at the top of your game tomorrow if you don’t want to wind up with a dozen of your regulars developing a sudden interest in botany and ecoterrorism.”

He made a face. “Don’t even joke.”

“Then close your eyes and give it the good old college try.” She pulled his arm over her waist and pulled up the sheets to cover both of them. He settled against her and listened to her heartbeat, trying to match his breathing to hers. Eventually he felt himself drifting off and let go, relaxing into a light and fitful sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Superman touched down in the small garden courtyard, his lips set in a thin line. Get this over with, and try not to make it worse, he told himself. The billionaire looked over the top of his paper, blinked in surprise, and then shot him a bright, toothy grin. He was still in his pajamas and a dressing gown at one o’clock in the afternoon. He folded the paper and tossed it onto the table, revealing his half-eaten breakfast. Clark suppressed the urge to shake his head.

“Superman! This is a bit unexpected. Can I offer you some coffee or, well, anything, really?” he asked cheerily.

“No, thank you, Mr. Wayne. I came to apologize for my behavior last week,” he said tightly. “I was under the influence of one of Poison Ivy’s chemical agents, and I’m afraid I wasn’t strong enough to overcome it. From what I remember, I think I may have given you a rather bad fright.”

“Please, think nothing of it,” Wayne said, waving a hand airily. “And call me Brucie. Everyone else does!”

“Still--”

“Really, I was a bit startled, that’s all. From what I’ve heard about Poison Ivy’s pixie dust, you were somewhere between a perfect gentleman and a saint. Besides, my stock in certain quarters has shot up immensely due to being deemed ravish-worthy by the Man of Steel.” He winked, laughing, and Superman cringed slightly. “Believe me, there’s absolutely nothing to apologize for.”

Clark was torn between relief at the man’s breezy tone and confusion. This was how Wayne-- _Brucie_ \--had been every other time he’d run into the man, yes. And, no, he still didn’t remember that night with any great degree of clarity. But he’d managed to string together a rough outline of his impressions and memories and what had happened when, and he didn’t think he’d imagined much of it. The steady, commanding voice, the efficient, self-assured movements, the strong shoulders under his arm, the firm and utterly self-confident hands on his chest, pushing him away, and the rough, seductive voice walking him through calling the Watchtower for help....He couldn’t reconcile any of that with the man in front of him now, the man with the impossibly sunny, blithely empty, almost aggressively witless expression plastered across his face.

“Are you sure I can’t persuade you to stay for breakfast?” he asked again. “Or I suppose it would actually be lunch now, but you get the idea.”

“Er, no. Thank you, again. I should be going. I just...thank you for being understanding about it. I felt terrible about the whole thing,” Clark said, running his hand through his hair awkwardly. 

He was missing something. Had the pollen’s effect been powerful enough to distort his perceptions that badly? Had he really only imagined Wayne as he remembered him from that night? Had his desires worked with the aphrodisiac to produce false memories? To go from a man who seemed to be doing his very best impersonation of an Irish setter to a man calmly dousing him with a pitcher of water, explaining that the gold dust clinging to his face and suit and hair was a chemical agent derived from one of Ivy’s mutant hybrids, ordering him not to swallow any more when he rinsed his mouth...it was unreal. It couldn’t have been real, he thought sourly. Of course he’d imagined it.

“No need! Honestly, it was something of an adventure. It’s all people have been asking about for the past week, and all for the price of a cab-ride back uptown,” Wayne laughed dismissively. “There’s really nothing for you to feel bad about.”

“Thank you. You’re very kind. I appreciate your understanding.” Clark managed a faint smile. He’d _wanted_ Batman, so he’d projected it onto the person he’d been with. He sighed. At least he hadn’t embarrassed himself more thoroughly. He supposed he couldn’t really blame himself, either. Wayne had the right build and the right shape. His chin even had the same jut to it. With his senses as fogged as they’d been, it wouldn’t have been a hard mistake to make.

Clark blinked, sucking in a lungful of air as something snapped into focus behind his eyes. It was like the first time he’d used his x-ray vision, and he shook himself. The cushion on Wayne’s chair, where the others were bare metal: a concession to a badly-bruised trapezius. Just getting up at noon? He’d been chasing the last at-large members of the Ventriloquist’s gang down alleys and across rooftops all night. The improbable array of weapons and high-tech gadgets became much less improbable with the idea that half of them were coming from top-secret Wayne Industries R&D labs. The immediate, contemptuous denial that Bruce Wayne might need added security, so out of character for a man practically consumed with protecting his city. _His_ city; it was impossible to go a block without seeing the name “Wayne” on something in letters three feet high. He could think of at least four “extreme sports accidents” that had coincided perfectly with Batman’s worst fights without taxing his memory. The impossibly sunny, blithely empty, almost aggressively witless _mask_ that had curled up at the edges, just for a moment, because Superman had been in trouble. He swallowed. He’d seen Batman because he’d finally _seen_ Batman, finally blundered into water deep enough to glimpse the shark gliding along below the fin. All the pieces finally tumbled into place.

“Something wrong, Superman?” Wayne asked, dark brows drawing together over depthless blue eyes. “Is there a kitten that needs rescuing from a, um, an armed robbery? I’m sorry, I have to confess I don’t really follow superheroes in the news. I’m a little fuzzy on the details of what ‘saving the day’ entails over in Metropolis. If there’s something you need to take care of, please don’t let me keep you.”

“No, it’s just--” He shook his head sharply. He’d seen Batman--Bruce, his name was _Bruce_ \--in disguises before. Often, in fact. He’d never felt such an overwhelming, bone-deep desire to tear one away, such a need to see the reality underneath again. He’d lost his footing, and badly. 

Before he quite registered what he was doing, he found himself leaning over the billionaire, their lips pressed together, his tongue sliding into Bruce’s mouth, one hand curling around the back of his neck and the other sliding up his arm, every motion gentle, so gentle, mindful of not only his own strength but the spot where Harley Quinn’s mallet had struck its glancing blow. 

Last time Bruce had tasted of wine and chocolate. This time he tasted of coffee and strawberry jam. After a momentary spike in the tension of his muscles, the stiffness of his spine, Bruce relaxed slightly, letting him continue the kiss, neither encouraging him nor pushing him away. It wasn’t the firm hands pressing on his chest, the resolute voice explaining that he wasn’t himself, didn’t know what he was doing, but it wasn’t a reciprocation, either. And he no longer had the excuse of a head full of pollen. He retreated, blushing brightly, and mumbled another apology. He thought he caught a brief flicker of the real man-- _What the hell are you playing at?_ \--behind those dark blue eyes before the customary facile grin spread across his features.

“You seem to be making a habit of this, Superman,” he chuckled. “Kissing me and then apologizing for it, I mean. Should I be flattered, or concerned about the effect this will have on public safety? I’d hate to be a distraction.”

He briefly wondered how far he could push it, what he’d have to do before that facade cracked and he had Batman back. He inhaled deeply and turned away.

“I am extremely sorry, Mr. Wayne. I’ll be going now. Again, I apologize.”

He bolted for the safety of the sky. He mind spun. What the hell had he been thinking? He groaned quietly. He’d been thinking of surprisingly soft lips parting under his, of thick, silken hair under his fingers, of those dark blue eyes half-closing in pleasure. He’d been thinking of sweeping the man up in his arms, carrying him with thin cloth between them instead of thick, stiff armor. 

Of how comfortably, how perfectly, Batman-- _Bruce_ , it felt so strange to finally know a name--fit against his arms and chest when there was nothing in the way. He’d never have guessed it, the way he’d had to carefully map the spots where the armor gave way, the spots where he could touch and know that Batman was all right without having to actively look or listen. He felt desire curl around his spine, squeezing his heart before settling low in his belly. He’d thought he’d wanted Batman badly. It was nothing compared to how he wanted Bruce, nothing compared to how he wanted the man with his defenses swept away, raw and real and warm under his hands.

* * *

Clark darted into Lois’s office and shut the door behind him. She looked up from her computer with a smile, then sobered quickly when she caught his expression.

“What’s up, Smallville?”

“I, uh, I kind of made out with Bruce Wayne again,” he confessed in a rush.

She cocked her head. “You know, I’m beginning to suspect that you’re not as immune to his charms as you think you are.”

“That doesn’t even get to the half of it,” he said miserably.

“You want to elaborate on that?”

He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes. “I do, but I can’t. It’s not my secret to tell.”

“Oh my god.” He shrank in on himself at her shocked tone. “He’s not--seriously? _Seriously?_ Wow.” She pushed her hair out of her face, her eyes wide. “Well, I guess if you’ve got a home address, it’s going to be a lot harder for him to skip out of team meetings.”

“Lois?” he asked carefully.

“I didn’t win a Pulitzer by being unable to realize that the list of Gothamites rich enough to have ready access to a bunch of nigh-disposable specialty jets and the list of Gothamites whose mouths you can’t seem to keep your tongue out of doesn’t have a whole lot of overlap,” she pointed out. He flinched a little, and she sighed, got up, and opened her arms. “Come here.”

“Lois....”

“Nope. C’mere.” She pulled him close and folded him against her, one hand reaching up to caress the nape of his neck. “It’s going to be okay, Clark. We figured us out, we can figure this out, too.”

He wrapped his arms around her, wanting it to be true.

“I...don’t know if I can believe what he told me about that night. When I was out of it,” he said heavily. “I may have done something--”

“You’ve always trusted him before. I think you still can,” she said, kissing him on the patch of bare skin behind his ear. “Even if you don’t want to take him at his word, I’ve managed to corroborate most of the particulars and haven’t found anything to contradict what he told you.”

“You’ve been investigating?”

“I haven’t seen something bother you like that in a while, Clark.” She hugged him tighter. “It somehow occurred to me that maybe you should have all the facts straight before you worried yourself sick over something that never happened.”

“And?”

She put enough space between them that she could look him in the eye. “And, based on the security footage from the gala, the logs from the Watchtower, Gotham’s police blotter, and the interview with the cabbie who took an apparently drunk but not unusually disheveled Bruce Wayne home from the building you were teleported off of, Batman’s official report of the incident looks solid. There’s no time missing, and there weren’t any unexplained incidents reported during that window.”

“I still feel like he’s not telling me something,” Clark sighed. “Beyond the obvious, I mean.” 

“Based on the driver’s story,” Lois said slowly, thinking, “my guess is that he was covering up catching a peripheral dose of Poison Ivy’s weaponized perfume. It would account for the time lag between him checking in with Shayera immediately after getting you evacuated and him checking in with her and John about the antidote. He needed to get himself detoxed before he could start working on you. He’d have had a hard time explaining that without telling them that he’d been on scene when you were hit, and then he’d have had a hard time explaining how he was on scene without you having noticed him or him appearing on the security tapes. So I think he just opted to omit that detail.”

“It would make sense. But if he got hit with it, too....” He shook his head and shuddered a little. “That pollen was unbelievable, Lois.”

She spread her hands. “Maybe now that you’ve got more angles figured out, you can get the whole story out of him. But he was functional enough to realize that you needed help and get you to it, and he was functional enough to get himself home. Not completely functional, but I’m guessing that even when he’s only firing on one cylinder, Batman’s doing better than half the planet’s baseline. I don’t think he let anything happen to you, and I definitely don’t think he let you happen to anyone else.”

Clark relaxed slightly. “What would I do without you?”

“Not have to explain the latest, non-Poison-Ivy-related make-out session to anyone?”

He blushed and looked away. “I got a little carried away when I realized that he was, you know, himself.”

“Oh, Smallville. What am I going to do with you?” she laughed softly, pulling him back in for another hug.

“Move my desk into your office so you can keep a closer eye on me?” he suggested, kissing the top of her head.

“Yeah, right. You want out of the bullpen, find a better way to work the leads you dig up working your cape-and-tights sideline into your stories.” She smiled and reached up to smooth his hair back. “Besides which, if we were sharing an office, we’d never get any work done.”

“Lois?”

“Yeah?”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Clark.” She leaned against him and drew him into a slow, lingering kiss. “Do you want to lock the door and join me in a long lunch? If I can’t take your mind off Batman at least for the time being, I don’t know if my ego’s going to be able to handle it.”

He pulled her close and kissed her back. “One of these days, we’re going to have to do something about that competitive streak of yours.”

“But not today,” she said, smirking slightly as he reached over and fumbled for the lock.

“Not today,” he agreed warmly.

* * *

“Superman.” Clark suppressed a sigh at the clipped tone.

“Batman,” he answered, trying not to visibly steel himself. 

He’d half-expected the vigilante to call out of monitor duty, given the crime wave the rogues gallery had been causing. It seemed like they were all bound and determined to take advantage of the chaos the others were causing for their own ends. If he were being honest, he’d half- _wanted_ him to call out of monitor duty. Suddenly being able to calculate the maximum amount of sleep the man could possibly have gotten seemed like discovering a new superpower. Between Batman’s known activities and Bruce Wayne’s public and business appearances, he didn’t like the information it was revealing. He was pushing himself far too hard, especially with a healing injury.

Clark shifted guiltily under what he was sure was a glare from behind the white lenses. It didn’t help that he’d made an ass out of himself in front of his colleague twice in the past week. Or that, given the six hours they’d be on together, he fully expected to make an ass of himself again. It _especially_ didn’t help that he found himself thinking about what it would take for it to be worth making an ass of himself. Batman tilted his head, his lips settling into a grimace. Clark blushed and looked away.

“How have you been feeling lately?” Bruce asked, his tone deceptively neutral. “Since the Poison Ivy incident?”

Clark blushed again. “Fine. I’m _fine_. I’m perfectly fit for duty.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he pointed out.

“Yeah, well, if you wanted people not to read too much into your normal-human-being questions, you should try occasionally asking them when you’re not angling for extra information,” he grumbled.

“All right, then.” He squared his shoulders. “I’ve been subjecting the pollen sample to more chemical analysis, this time with an eye on the likely side-effects in a Kryptonian.”

“And?” He mentally shaved ten percent off the possible amount of rest Bruce could have gotten and tried not to scowl at him.

“And while it hasn’t proven persistent in humans, you may still be under the influence.”

Superman snorted. As much credence as he’d like to give the theory, he’d felt the first stirrings of this long before he got dosed. The unexpected revelation that he not only knew what Batman’s face looked like, what his eyes looked like, what he felt like under the armor, but that he knew what he sounded like when he came....That had all proven more devastating than the pollen. 

“Regardless of how you might think you’re feeling, I’d like you to give a saliva sample.”

Clark looked away before he blurted something inappropriate.

“Problem?” Batman asked after the silence lasted a few seconds too long.

“Wouldn’t a blood sample be more effective?”

“Not enough to justify trying to get a needle through that thick hide of yours.”

“You’re one to talk,” Clark sputtered.

“Meaning?” he demanded archly.

Clark took a deep breath. “Nothing. If you want a sample, let’s do it now. It’s quiet, and you can have the Watchtower computers analyzing it while we’re on shift instead of waiting until you get back to your base.”

“Fine.”

Bruce relaxed slightly as Superman fell into step behind him. He’d been afraid for a moment that Clark would refuse on general principle, and as thick as his skin was, it was nothing compared to his skull when he decided to be stubborn about something. The additional analysis he’d done after Superman’s unexpected visit to the manor had actually yielded nothing of interest, but he was otherwise at a loss to explain the man’s behavior. He didn’t think it was a particularly bold leap of logic. Unusual sexual behavior following exposure to an industrial-strength aphrodisiac...it was simply reasonable to presume that the simulation had been run with incorrect or incomplete parameters and start with the hypothesis that Ivy’s pollen was to blame.

Bruce was just relieved that they were alone for the discussion. Clark was unlikely to raise questions about why Batman was suspicious of his mental state now, but all it took was one person--Wally making a stupid comment, or Shayera asking to see his calculations--and then he’d need a cover story. And as overwhelmingly important as security was, he did not particularly enjoy lying to his teammates. It was far preferable if it never occurred to them to demand answers in the first place. 

It had been a minor miracle that, whatever pheromone-soaked epiphany Clark had almost had on that damned rooftop, it had been lost in the same temporary chemical imbalance that had generated it. He wished the tiny, irrational, treasonous part of him that bitterly regretted it could be chalked up to some lingering effect of the pollen. Instead, he was faced with the unpleasant reality that his judgment was clouded--badly clouded--when it came to Superman. He wanted to get close, and the desire was strong enough to have either generated a selective misinterpretation of Clark’s statements in the heat of the moment or to be provoking thoughts of self-sabotage. He gritted his teeth as they reached the medical wing and Superman stood too close while he keyed in the access code.

Of all the people Clark could have decided to flirt with, why did it have to be Bruce Wayne? He didn’t care much for Batman’s alter ego, and he hadn’t been particularly shy about it as either Superman or Clark Kent. He could have just as easily snapped up any of the other lingering guests at the party. He could have just as easily made his apology in public, or without a repeat performance of the offense. The only small solace was that Superman settling on Bruce Wayne instead of a random celebrity or titan of business made it incredibly easy to control any potential media fallout. Bruce sifted through the supply cabinet’s contents and shot a glare at the alien.

“Will you stop hovering?” he snarled.

“I’m sorry, but if I’m going to be sticking something in my mouth, it would be nice to know that it was prepared properly,” Clark said flatly, crossing his arms. Bruce bit back a sigh and laid everything out on the tray with exaggerated care.

It had been difficult enough without _knowing_ what Superman felt like without the barrier of the armor, the gauntlets, and the mask. It had been difficult enough without the bruise where his shoulder met his neck reminding him of Superman’s mouth on his skin. Now? He kept his face tilted down but let his gaze rise to Clark for a handful of seconds, safe behind the lenses. He was perfect. Clark was perfect, and he was engaging in a dangerous level of voluntary delusion if he thought he was going to be able to remain a part of the League without weakening it. He closed his eyes and let out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. How hard had he been trying to avoid that conclusion? Too hard. Far, far too hard.

He slid the tray across the table. “Swab the inside of your cheek for ten seconds, then put it in the vial and close the lid.”

Clark narrowed his eyes at the slight tremor in Batman’s hands and felt a small spark of anger ignite deep in his chest. The germ of an idea coalesced abruptly. “On one condition.”

“This isn’t a negotiation,” he grunted.

“No, it’s not,” Clark agreed. “It’s an ultimatum. I’m not giving a sample unless you give one, too.”

“You’re being childish.”

“What I’m _trying_ to be is a good teammate,” he countered. “You’re worried about me because you’ve been playing with your chemistry set? Fine. I’m worried about you because I’ve got eyes and can tell time. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. You should be resting. You’re still injured from that fight with the Joker. Your heart rate is elevated, your hands are shaking--”

The hands in their black leather gauntlets curled into fists. He growled, “None of which--”

“ _Let me finish_ ,” Clark said firmly. “You’re taking risks you’d reject as foolish under most circumstances. Your judgement’s off. Whatever counterargument you’ve got ready to go? Just stow it. We’ve known each other for a long time, and I know what I’m seeing. Since we both know Poison Ivy didn’t drop herself off at Arkham, you’ve at least run the risk of an incidental exposure to something that produces impulsive, erratic behavior.”

“Over a very short period of time. In humans.”

“Then what’s the harm in giving a sample?” he demanded. 

He could see Batman’s jaw clench. Calling him on his obsessive tendencies never went well, but he had thought the possible excuse, however flimsy, of the pollen being to blame might soften the blow. Bruce turned on a heel and started stalking away. Clark cursed himself silently. He had apparently miscalculated.

Bruce jumped, his back striking up against the counter, as a blue-and-red blur resolved into Superman directly in front of him. Clark leaned close, one hand resting on the counter on either side of him, boxing him in.

“What are you doing?” he snapped, retreating as far as he could with the Kryptonian crowding so close.

“I’m not letting you walk away from this conversation,” Clark said, his voice low and rough.

Bruce glowered at him. “I was getting another sample kit. There was only one in the drawer.”

“Oh. Um. Sorry.” He flushed. He could hear Bruce’s heart beating like a jackhammer. “I didn’t mean to....” He trailed off and swallowed.

“You’re not helping your case--” Bruce growled, only to be cut off by Clark’s lips against his.


	6. Chapter 6

Bruce shifted slightly in Clark’s grip, trying and failing to regain his balance. Clark’s hips were pinning him firmly against the table, and, between the arm wrapped around the small of his back and the arm looped behind his shoulder and cradling the back of his head, he had no room to maneuver. The way Clark was leaning into him forced him back, robbing him of any leverage he might have used. If he’d required anything else to confirm his hypothesis that Clark was still suffering the aftereffects of the pollen, the soft lips against his and the warm tongue forcing its way into his mouth were proof enough. As tempting as it was to take advantage of the contact for as long as it lasted, he needed to take control of the situation. He braced his free arm against Clark’s shoulder and pushed, twisting his face to the side at the same time. Superman didn’t budge, but he loosened his hold on Bruce’s head, letting him break the kiss.

“This is _definitely_ not helping your case,” he panted.

Clark snorted. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

“What?”

“I said, you have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he repeated. “The pollen might be why I finally did it, but it had nothing to do with me wanting to.” He pressed a kiss to Bruce’s jaw. “Once I did it, I had a hard time not doing it again.”

“What about Lois?” Bruce demanded. He tried integrating the new information with what he knew and gave up in frustration. He was too spent, too rattled, and too far gone in his own reaction to Clark’s lust. The arms holding him loosened slightly.

“We’ve talked about it. A lot.” Clark leaned back, letting Bruce get a good look at his face. He seemed...deceptively sober. Bruce swallowed. “Since my run-in with Ivy’s perfume, we’ve talked about it a lot more, and a lot more seriously. She’s okay with it.” He sighed softly. “Do you want me to let go?”

Say yes, Bruce told himself. Yes, let go, we can pretend this never happened, we _should_ pretend this never happened, this won’t end well.

“No,” he breathed.

Clark stared at him, his eyes suddenly bright and searching. After a few seconds, a wide, luminous smile spread across his face. It was like looking into the sun, and Bruce closed his eyes against the beauty of it. Then Clark’s lips were back on his, nudging his mouth open, and he let himself melt into it this time. He dropped his free hand to Clark’s hip and tentatively, almost experimentally, pulled him closer. Clark groaned and rocked against him before he reached down and plucked at the cuff of the gauntlet.

“Do you think you could...?” Clark muttered, barely moving back enough to talk before leaning in again. He smiled irrepressibly when Bruce obediently stripped the gloves off and tossed them away. His hands were rough and warm through the thin cloth of Clark’s uniform, and the way Bruce was pulling him close instead of pushing him away was enough to make his cock strain against his briefs. He ran his fingertips along the kevlar plates until he found the hidden catches. Bruce shivered against him as he stripped off half his armor.

“We’re on duty,” he growled, grabbing Clark’s wrists when his hands moved to the buckle of the utility belt.

“It’s been a quiet night, and the alert will sound if anything comes up or someone calls in,” Clark retorted. “It can’t possibly take you _that_ long to put all this back on in the event of an emergency.”

Without waiting for an answer, he bent his head to kiss Bruce’s shoulder and stroked the skin over his ribs and stomach, reveling in the way it was still soft in spite of the scars. After a second, he found the mark he’d left the night of the exposure. It was fading. He gave in to a brief possessive impulse and sucked a fresh bruise into Bruce’s flesh. He was rewarded with a choked groan and Bruce’s fingers digging into his back. He ran his tongue over the new mark and nipped at the skin before returning to Bruce’s belt. He didn’t protest this time when Clark unfastened it and tossed it away.

Bruce slipped his hands down over Clark’s ass and pulled him close, marveling at the way Clark’s body responded so readily to him. He ignored the delirious thought that he was dreaming and hissed when Clark latched onto his shoulder again. He was going to have a hard time telling the marks left by his enemies and the marks left by his friends if the Kryptonian kept it up. He nudged Clark’s face away and began kissing his way down his neck, peppering the unblemished, bulletproof skin with the occasional bite as well. Clark pulled off slightly, and Bruce took the opportunity to run his hand over the throbbing erection barely contained by the red briefs. He was amazing, Bruce thought.

“That’s it,” Clark grunted, closing his eyes. “The rest of the armor. Off. Now.” Bruce tilted his head and smirked, and Clark shot him a needy look. “ _Please._ ”

“Lose the suit, and we’ll talk,” he countered, only to find Clark stripped bare and pressing against him before he finished the sentence. Superspeed had its advantages, he decided.

“Your turn,” he breathed, following the path of Bruce’s spine with his fingertips. Bruce let his eyes fall half-closed, trying to ground himself. Clark-- _Superman_ \--was naked and hard in front of him. He seized Clark by the hips and turned them so that Clark was backed up against the table, with Bruce in front of him. “What--?”

Clark’s question cut off in a gasp as Bruce slid to one knee and took Clark’s cock in his hand. A second later he had the length of it in his mouth, licking along the glans and then letting it slide down his throat. Clark stammered and choked for a moment, his hands tightening around the edge of the countertop hard enough to leave dents in its surface. Every nerve in his body was lit up, and he was torn between wanting this to go on forever and wanting to push Bruce down to the floor, rip the rest of the armor off him, and....

“Oh, god, I’m coming,” he gasped. Bruce pulled back and wrapped his fingers around the shaft, pumping it expertly until Clark came with a shout, spending across Bruce’s chest. He spent a few seconds trying to catch his breath and drinking in the sight of Bruce kneeling in front of him, his lips swollen and come running down his stomach. Clark shivered and pounced.

He pushed Bruce backwards, toppling him onto the floor, only to have Bruce twist under him and use his own momentum against him. He found a boot planted firmly in his hip, then he was launched over the vigilante and crashing to the ground. He came to a rest with Bruce on top of him, straddling him. What he could see of Bruce’s face was flushed, and his grin was bordering on feral. Clark dug his fingers into Bruce’s hips.

“Don’t think I’m above just tearing this off you,” he gritted. Bruce relented and touched a few hidden fasteners, loosening the armor enough that Clark could run his hand over Bruce’s swollen cock. He had Bruce squirming and arching over him, desperate enough that he didn’t react to Clark moving until he had an arm around his hips and was rolling them over. 

He pinned Bruce easily this time, his hands around his forearms and his hips across his thighs. He shifted so that he was holding Bruce’s wrists with one hand, then ran the thumb of his free hand along Bruce’s lips, wiping away a bit of saliva. He bent to kiss him deeply and gently before pulling back and tracing the edge of the cowl with his fingertips.

“This needs to go,” he said softly.

“Out of the question.”

“I need to see your face.” Clark blushed. “ _Please_ , Bruce.”

Bruce bucked underneath him at the sound of his name and struggled to free his hands. Clark relaxed his hold reluctantly, wondering if he’d finally pushed too far, and Bruce shook free. He gave Clark one last glare, then pulled the mask up and off, tossing it to the side. Clark grinned at him, his face lighting up. Bruce flushed and looked away for a moment, and Clark caught the slight tremor in his hands. He combed his fingers through Bruce’s hair and kissed his way along his jaw and down his neck.

“Thank you,” he murmured, sliding one hand down Bruce’s stomach to stroke his cock.

Bruce growled at him and thrust into his fist. Then Clark was kissing him again, nudging his mouth open and tangling their tongues together, and Bruce closed his eyes. With Clark pressed so close against him, he could almost forget the missing cowl. He was too exposed, too vulnerable. The heat of Clark’s gaze felt like it might burn him.

“Bruce.” He shivered, the sound of his name on Clark’s lips almost terrifying. “I want you inside me. Please.”

He grunted and jerked as Clark’s thumb rubbed over his slit. There was something unaccountably wrong about Clark saying ‘please’ in that tone. It made his skin tingle and his nerves hum like a plucked bowstring. He felt trapped by the inevitability of giving in to it. He pushed Clark’s hand away and rolled them over.

“Are you sure?” he asked, his voice rough and his eyes studying every flicker of emotion on Clark’s face.

“God, yes. Plea--”

“Don’t,” Bruce snarled. “Don’t,” he said again, softly this time.

Clark smiled and reached up to stroke his face. He recoiled from the touch for a split second, then stilled, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath before turning his head and brushing a light kiss across the palm of Clark’s hand.

“Stay here,” Bruce muttered, groping for his belt and then rifling through several drawers. 

Clark watched him, riveted by the play of muscle under skin and the graceful economy of his movements. Bruce was half-dressed and disheveled and still painfully beautiful, all the more so because he was the one responsible for his state. He could still feel the pressure of Bruce’s lips against his hand, and he swallowed at the sudden vulnerability of Batman without his mask. He wondered if the number of people who’d seen him like this--really seen _him_ \--would need more than one hand to count. He doubted it. Then Bruce was back, dropping a condom onto the floor next to his hip, gently spreading his legs, and kneeling in front of him. Clark groaned as Bruce ran his hands along the inside of his thighs.

“You’re sure about this?” Bruce asked again, his fingers curling hesitantly around Clark’s hips.

“Yes. I am absolutely sure about this.” He sat up and pulled him into a kiss. “I want you.” He kissed him again. “I want _this_.” He smiled teasingly. “You’re not going to make me beg for it, are you? I can say please again if that’s what you--”

Bruce cut him off with a fierce kiss, one hand around the back of his neck and the other wrapped tight around his stiffening cock. Clark groaned into his mouth, then let himself fall back when Bruce let go and shoved him down.

“Relax,” Bruce grunted, popping the cap off a jar of lube. “And tell me immediately if there’s any pain, or if you need me to stop.”

“You’re worrying too much. You can’t hurt me, Bruce,” Clark murmured, looking up at him fondly.

He froze, and his expression hardened. “ _Promise me_ you will say something.”

“I promise, I promise.” He held his hands up in mock-surrender. Bruce glowered at him, and he sighed. “I promise,” he repeated, more seriously this time.

He relaxed and watched as Bruce slicked his fingers. He pressed gently against his entrance, circling it and coating it before carefully sliding one finger inside him. Clark groaned and saw Bruce tense. He waited until he’d subsided before beginning to move, and Clark wondered at the way he was suddenly so hesitant, treating the body they’d all come to rely on as essentially unbreakable as if it were something fragile and delicate. He found it strangely endearing. Then Bruce slid in a second finger, repeating the process before brushing his prostate, and he found himself moaning and squirming.

Bruce bit back a groan of his own at the sight of Clark with his head thrown back and his eyes shut in ecstasy. He rubbed a gentle circle over the small knot of tissue and smiled as Clark spasmed against him.

“Fuck, _Bruce_ ,” he hissed, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “More. Please, more, I need more...”

Bruce added another finger with the same care and attention. Whatever Clark might think, he wasn’t completely invulnerable--Luthor had demonstrated that enough times over--and he’d be damned if he was going to risk hurting him like this. Clark tightened around him as he stroked his prostate again, then groaned in frustration. He kept his movements slow and cautious, giving Clark time to adjust, then dropped his head to take Clark’s cock in his mouth. Clark gave a strangled shout and barely restrained himself from bucking up at the unexpected stimulation. He groaned low and long, and Bruce swallowed around him. Clark whimpered, and Bruce found both of the Kryptonian’s hands wrapped around the back of his head, pressing him down gently but firmly. He relaxed his throat and pumped his fingers slowly, stretching Clark around them. 

Clark muttered incoherently and curled his fingers into Bruce’s hair, setting a pace that matched his ministrations. He’d thought it was good before, but the wet velvet heat of Bruce’s mouth combined with the incandescent starburst that crowded his vision whenever Bruce’s fingers found their mark as unbelievable. He pushed Bruce’s head down until his lips were wrapped around the base of his cock, waiting for the least sign of resistance and savoring its absence. He continued for a few minutes, slowing or speeding up depending on how much Bruce was willing to give him in return, until he was hovering on the edge and desperate for Bruce to push him over.

“I’m not going to last much longer,” he gasped, waiting for Bruce to pull away as he had before. Instead Bruce’s fingers pressed hard and fast against the gland, buried in him to the last knuckle, and hummed around his cock. He cried out and held him fast, spilling down his throat and not letting go until he pulled his fingers free.

Bruce swallowed and wiped his mouth on the back of his arm, smiling thinly as he surveyed the wreck he’d made of Clark.

“Ready?” he asked hoarsely.

Clark grinned lazily, staring up at him with lust-fogged eyes. “ _Please_.”

He flushed, and his eyes fluttered closed for a second. Clark took the chance to scoop him up and bowl him over. He ripped the condom wrapper open. “I think I’ve found your kryptonite, Bruce.”

He received a wordless glare in return and rendered it somewhat less potent with a quick stroke of his thumb across the head of Bruce’s cock. Bruce gasped and arched, and Clark slid the sheath over it.

“This is going to be over before it starts if you keep doing that,” Bruce warned through clenched teeth.

“Then we’d just have to start over,” Clark said, smiling. Bruce snorted and slicked his cock, reaching for Clark’s hips to guide him down.

“Just go slow,” he said, steadying himself with one hand as Clark began to lower himself onto the shaft. 

Bruce moaned and panted beneath him. In spite of his thorough preparation, Clark was still almost painfully tight. It was a struggle not to thrust into the close, incredible heat of Clark’s body. He tried lifting him up slightly, trying to slow him, worried that he was hurting himself, only to find his forearms pressed to the floor.

“It’s okay, Bruce. I promise, I’m fine,” Clark soothed, leaning forward to kiss his throat. 

He tried not to writhe as Clark took the rest of him, rocking back until he had Bruce up to the hilt. Every muscle in his body was screaming for release, but the last scrap of rational thought made him hold still, waiting for Clark to adjust. He gritted his teeth against the need to move, against the pain where his bruised shoulder was being ground against the hard metal of the deck, against the overwhelming radiance of the look Clark was giving him, against the sound of his voice in his ear. It was too much. He couldn’t....

Clark lifted up a bit, then sank back down, settling into a gentle rhythm until he’d acclimated to Bruce’s girth. Bruce groaned and struggled underneath him, all control gone. If he’d been honest, the stretch was still a little uncomfortable, a little too much. The sight of Bruce undone because of him, the last shred of discipline evaporating like fog in the morning sun, more than made up for it. He sped up, and Bruce twisted his hips and thrust up to meet him. He tried to memorize the way Bruce’s cheeks and chest flushed, the way every muscle seemed to stand out under his skin, the jaw clenched with the attempt not to speak. He bent his head and sank his teeth into Bruce’s shoulder, hard enough to raise a mark but not hard enough to bruise.

“Fuck, _Clark_!” he growled, shuddering and curling against him as he came. 

Clark held him close until the spasm passed, enjoying the way his severe features lost some of their roughness in the immediate aftermath of his climax. After a minute, Clark fully registered what he’d said. He chuckled and kissed him. Bruce blinked at him blearily.

“Something funny?” he grumbled.

“You knew. All this time, and you _knew_ ,” Clark accused affectionately. Bruce colored, and Clark kissed him again. “You’re impossible sometimes, you know that?”

“We should save the fight about secret identities for a time when we’re fully dressed,” he grunted. Clark pulled off him, smirking when a shiver ran through his frame at the motion.

“We’re not going to have a fight about secret identities,” he said firmly. He cupped Bruce’s face in one hand. “You’re going to take a nap, and then we’re going to have a fight about something else.” He kissed him and smiled ruefully. “Probably something stupid, given our track record.”

Bruce gave him a long, hard stare. “And you say I’m impossible.”

“You are. Ask anyone.” He got to his feet as Bruce shook his head and pulled the condom off. He offered his hand, and Bruce sighed and took it, letting Clark hoist him up. He turned and glanced around at the mess they’d made of the medical wing. The startled intake of breath made him turn back sharply, tensing. “Your shoulder! I didn’t--”

“Leave it be,” he snapped, moving out of range as Clark reached for him. “I know you didn’t. It’s fine.” Clark shot him a hurt look, and he softened slightly. “Don’t do that.”

“Worry about you?”

“Give me that look.”

Clark snorted, exasperated. “Get some sleep, and I promise not to give you the look until you wake up.”

“We’re on duty.” Bruce glared at him and moved to pull his uniform back together. “This doesn’t change anything, Clark.”

“Of course it does.” Clark pulled him into a hug and ran his tongue over his neck, making him shiver. “But we can talk about it later.”

Bruce squirmed out of his grip and started refastening his armor.

“Impossible,” he muttered under his breath.

“I can hear you,” Clark reminded him evenly.

“I know.” The dark blue eyes flashed with a challenge that made Clark want to replace it with the dazed, sated look he’d had when Clark had finally made him come. Bruce shook his head and suddenly had him pressed up against the counter, a mirror of the way they’d started out, except that Bruce was kissing him with a terrible hunger that left him breathless when he finally broke away. “If you’re going to try throwing your weight around, you should probably at least put some pants on first.”

“You can’t kiss me like that and then ask me to put my clothes back on,” Clark groaned.

“Are you criticizing my methods?” he asked archly.

“Only the ones that I think are likely to backfire in the long run.” He rested his forehead on Bruce’s collarbone and closed his eyes. “You’re not going to make this easy, are you?”

“I’m not going to let you start patronizing me just because we fucked, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m not patronizing you, Bruce. We need you to be functional, and you’re not going to be much longer if you don’t get some rest.” He paused long enough to suck another mark into Bruce’s neck. “Please.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t make me,” Clark shot back.

Bruce pushed him away. “Fine. If it’s _that_ important to you. This once.” Clark brightened, and he held up a hand warningly. “And you _will_ wake me up if anything happens. You will _not_ go flying off without any back-up. Understood?”

“I promise.” He smiled slightly, his eyebrows quirking up. Bruce blushed faintly and gathered the rest of his clothes, grumbling to himself. Clark took a split-second to pull his uniform back on, waited until he was sure Bruce would actually follow through on their agreement, and then made his way back to the observation deck, grinning. He was going to have an _extremely_ hard time not doing that again.


End file.
